Chapter 7 - Continued
Benoit looked longingly backwards at the rows of gastronomy calling his name; he was hoping to stock up on jams, jellies, and preserves today to last him and Camille through the summer. He turned back to Fury, and held up the white paper bag still in his hand.
“Have a walnut, Nick. They’re good for your heart.”
The two walked out in silence to the standard issue black towncar waiting just outside the fair. Once seated, Benoit dug out his phone and turned in on again - he wasn’t hiding any more, and if a year with Interpol had taught him anything, what Fury thought was an all-night project often took about an hour. There were friends that could be calling with parties for the evening. And women who might prefer to stay home.
“Mind telling me what this is about?”
Benoit wasn’t sure if Nick shot him a look or not - Benoit was looking at Nick’s left profile, so all he saw was that black eye patch - but he lectured as though he had. “Four days ago a woman claiming the name Zoe arrived at our office and swore she was an agent of ours. She said she’s been working for a man named Charles Foucalt on the island of Genosha infiltrating the Friends of Humanity. Her cover was blown, and she had Interpol orders to report to Paris for her next mission. At the rendezvous,” he even said that with an American accent, “she was ambushed, and her gut reaction was to come to our doorstep.”
“And all of this leads to some code, I’m sure.”
“Benny, shut the fuck up and listen. Her chain of command is this Charles, and then a man called Agusto Escobar. She apparently knows the ins and outs of the Friends of Humanity. And she’s a mutie.”
“Good for her. Does she have tentacles?”
Nick audibly sighed this time, but ignored him. “We’ve never heard of a Zoe, Charles, or Agusto. Or anybody remotely resembling these people. Or a mission to Genosha, or a subsequent mission in Paris, or any of this shit. None of this exists.” He paused, but Benoit knew better than to assume it was hesitation. Fury had a reputation of “shooting from the hip.” Benoit winced - it was not the first time he wished his mutant power kept the American turns of phrase out of his vocabulary. Apparently, Fury took the wince for something else.
“Oh come on, Benny. I haven’t even asked you for anything yet.”
Benoit chuckled. “Since when do you ask, Nick.”
“My understanding is that she just arrived in Paris, she only has the clothes on her back, and she’s frazzled. Show her around town, Benny. And get her some clean clothes; most of what she’s wearing is burnt. You have some women’s clothes left behind, lying around the apartment, right?” Fury didn’t wait for an answer. “She’ll be staying with you.”
“No, she won’t be. My apartment is too small for overnight company -” he ignored Fury’s snort, that he assumed was supposed to be a laugh “- and Cammy has school tomorrow. Put her in a hotel.”
“Can’t Cammy stay with your maid?”
Now, Benoit was getting angry. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do with my family and life, Mr. Fury -”
“Colonel Fury -”
“Not in this country, and not in this time. How I raise Cammy is none of your concern, and for you to impress not only on me, but on Cammy, on Babette, on anyone your miniscule little mind can dream up, is vile and disgusting. France isn’t your playground to play American cowboy army commando, or to restart your hegemony over mutants. I agreed to work for you - yes, agreed, Nick, and that agreement only extended to breaking codes, translating documents, interpreting messages. At most, a desk job. Don’t you dare, Mr. Fury, ever tell me what to do with my family.”
Fury’s face hadn’t changed. “Are you finished? Let’s not forget that you agreed to work with me because I can keep you safe. I don’t beat around the bush, Benny, you know that. You keep this attitude up - or you refuse me again - and you’ll be on a slow boat to Central Park with a giant M tattooed on your face.”
Benoit was about to boil over with rage. The one downside to Paris was Fury, Interpol, all of this nonsense. And more than anything, he hated being trapped. This Zoe better be attractive.
“What do you mean she escaped? How incompetent can you be, Pyro?” Mystique was sick of people not doing their jobs. As soon as Pyro showed up, he had been a complete failure at anything she set him to do. The rest of the “New Brotherhood” was not much more than a gang of moronic thugs, no better than Pyro. At least he had some level of experience.
“She bloody escaped, Mystique, now leave me alone. What did you want her for, anyways?”
“She’s a loose end, Pyro, take care of your assignments for once. Stay put, and wait for my next command.”
“Whatever, mate.” She threw the phone at the wall, not bothering to hang up. Oh, but she was having a day.
Mystique had been busy over the past month. She had collected no fewer than four mutants - besides herself and Pyro - for the Brotherhood, but most were two-bit thieves she had picked up off the street, and half weren’t old enough to stay up past midnight. But they were a team, which is more than she had when Pyro walked through the door.
It felt like she had been juggling the issues of the world. The Friends of Humanity were the first concern, and her plans for them were quickly falling through a sieve. When Charles had told her that Zoe had been compromised, Mystique - as the ever charming Agusto Escobar - had sent the girl to Paris. Someone needed to keep an eye on Nick Fury. The man was as often a friend to mutantkind as foe, and with all that was going on today, she needed him to be reminded he was as disliked by S.H.I.E.L.D. as she and the Brotherhood were. Meanwhile, she would send Tarot and Basilisk to Genosha to end the Friends of Humanity once and for all.
All of that changed, of course, when she started piecing together Apocalypse’s plan. Pyro’s little concubine had been spotted in London and Toronto - no attacks, but the girl was hardly circumspect about her scouting missions. And then, as soon as Zoe had appeared in Paris, so had this Sin-je. And Wolverine. Whatever Apocalypse was doing, he was collecting mutants for some purpose or another; he regularly found a new prophesy and became obsessed with it until someone put a stop to it. And if he wanted Zoe, he wasn’t going to get her.
Now, what was a lose end had become something more. Pyro’s obvious failure meant that Zoe would be running to Fury if she wasn’t with him already. Everything that Mystique had sought to set up with her and Charles would be ruined, the efforts to bring down the Friends thwarted, and Mystique exposed. Grand. The Sentinels, the Friends, Apocalypse, and no words from Destiny in a month.
She assumed the familiar form of Agusto Escobar before calling Charles.
“Foucalt.”
“Charles, we have a problem.” As the words were coming from her mouth she was juggling the story in her head. She may have been skilled at weaving webs, but Mystique would have liked to play out the scenario in her head, all of the possible options, rather than making things up as she went along and potentially being caught in a lie. “Zoe had gone rogue.”
“What? No way. I cannot believe it.”
“She failed to make her rendezvous in Paris as scheduled, and we got worried. We sent out teams to find her; turns out, she was meeting with Islamic extremists.” Mystique winced; linking her to something that was outside Charles’ scope entirely may have made it more difficult for him to detect a lie, but it was a lost opportunity to have her killed.
“This…this doesn’t make any sense.” Charles was clearly in shock. Mystique was not sure whether his relationship with this Zoe was father-daughter or more romantic.
“Charles, I’m sending you two more mutants. Tarot and Basilisk don’t have Zoe’s finesse, but your mission is simple. Dismantle the Friends of Humanity entirely. By force if you must. I want it done within the month.”
“Understood.”
The pieces began to fall into place. “Oh, and Charles.” Casually, an afterthought. He had to believe this wasn’t her goal. “If you see Zoe, she is to be killed on sight. Tarot and Basilisk have the same instructions.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Good luck, Charles.”
“Thank you, Agusto.”
When she hung up the phone, Mystique was a mix of determination and nerves. Her stomach’s lurches betrayed her; even she wasn’t confident that any of this could work out. Not in the way she saw at least. Damnit but where is Destiny?
Part of her manor had been converted into quarters for the New Brotherhood. Basilisk needed only one room - the man was of questionable intelligence and often sat staring at the wall with that large one eye of his. Mystique had collared him with a device stolen from the concentration camps that she bought from a fence years ago; she had gone through three homeless mutants kidnapped from the streets of Chicago before she had learned to open the damn things without killing the wearer. The collar was a precaution; Basilisk was easily startled, and he could easily put Mystique out of commission for a week. Weeks, even days, were not so disposable.
But upon entering the living room which the four younglings shared, Mystique saw only Bedlam. Apparently he was in his early twenties - to Mystique, he looked not a day over twelve, especially sprawled on the couch playing some video game on the TV. His focus never strayed from the screen as she spoke.
“Where is Tarot? I need to speak with her.” Bedlam just nodded his head back to one of the bedrooms. These children hadn’t been sent on a single mission yet; she doubted more each day whether they could handle it.
Mystique threw open the door to Roulette’s bedroom and saw the two girls sitting next to each other on Roulette’s bed, each looking down and picking imaginary lint from themselves. Mystique had never thought the two would become friends. Tarot’s long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail today, and her pale skin was flush almost to match. Pyro had remarked on how much Tarot looked like his African whore, particularly after seeing Tarot’s seafoam green eyes, but as long as Pyro wasn’t fucking the new members she didn’t particularly care what he thought. Tarot had been about a month away from finishing her third year at Colombia, where she had joined every rabid “pro-tolerance” group available to her. She spent more time marching the streets of Manhattan than reading a textbook. And in her spare time she told fortunes at a local tea parlor, where she had first “met” Pyro.
Mystique recognized the signs; Tarot had been so wrapped up in fighting for a cause she would resort to violence sooner or later. The Brotherhood would be a great channel for that anger - as much as she wouldn’t admit it, that’s exactly what it was. Mystique herself still didn’t understand Tarot’s abilities, but the girl was a warrior through and through.
Next to her, Roulette seemed lifeless. Where Tarot was surviving a top university education, Roulette had never finished high school. While not kicked out of the home by her parents, once they discovered her mutation life at home was not hardly a lovefest. Now at only 19 years old the girl already showed strands of gray in her straight long black hair - the streaks at least reminded Mystique a bit of Rogue. She had joined Mystique not because she was fighting for a cause, but because she had nothing better to do. It wasn’t intentional, but she and Tarot should have been worlds apart.
But instead here they were, next to each other, on Roulette’s bed. She knew instantly that the girls had not simply been gossiping or helping each other through a tough time. Mystique sighed heavily; splitting them up was still better than a romance among the team, but now they would put up a fight.
“Tarot, I need to speak with you alone.” Tarot stood to leave, but Mystique was getting sick of musical chairs. “Roulette, you can leave.” At being thrown out of her own room the girl just shrugged; how much of what was going on with Tarot as well was because she had nothing better to do?
Once Roulette shut the door, Mystique pulled a chair away from its desk and sat facing Tarot.
“You’ll be heading on your first mission tonight. I need to brief you.”
“Shouldn’t we all hear this?”
“You’re going with Basilisk. I need Roulette and Bedlam for other matters.”
That’s when the screaming started.
The girl that Benoit was introduced to, that he was supposed to wine, dine, romance, and catch in a lie, was not exactly his type. He preferred the Parisian supermodel - rail thin, mysterious, fashionable, perceptive eyes taking in her surroundings, tall but not taller than him, perky, small-ish breasts, incredible legs, brilliant conversationalist in all things small talk. If he could get all of that, actual intelligence was a bonus, but certainly not required. Instead, Zoe was muscular, with short-cut curly black hair and a slight bent to her nose. She wrung her hands and shifted with a mixed look of fear and frustration. And she stammered every time she spoke.
“I don’t know how many times I can tell this story,” she spat out. “I was nearly…melted! My skin is burnt. See?” She pointed to the same burn injury she had before. “Why don’t you believe me?”
The office where all three sat was cramped, despite Fury’s obviously minimalistic approach to decorating. The first time Benoit had seen it, he was surprised there was not a large head of some animal stuffed and mounted on the wall. He heard they did that sort of thing in America. Zoe and her muscle-legs took up much of the space in front of Fury’s desk, and the hulking American sat cross-legged and reclined behind it. A file cabinet, a single empty bookshelf, and the two chairs against the wall - one which Benoit occupied - completed the scene. Benoit had not said a single word during this meeting, knew the woman’s story by heart, and had taken to studying the visual of this absurdity from different angles in his mind. He was not his brother - Alec had a photographic memory of mutant proportions - but Benoit still had a good concept for space and shape.
Fury was scratching at his eyepatch subconsciously, which always made Benoit queasy. His fingers occasionally poked too hard, the eyepatch giving too much, revealing that what it covered was nothing but a hole. Silence had fallen on the room, but so far no real progress had been made since Fury had briefs Benoit in the car on the way over to this “meeting.” Zoe claimed to have been attacked by a fire-wielding mutant after being sent by Interpol to Paris. Despite the popular belief that Nick Fury was dead, Zoe had not seemed surprised that he was among the living and working for Interpol itself. Either she knew to expect him or, more likely, had never heard of him. The woman certainly did look stupid enough.
“Benny? Any thoughts?” Fury looked at him expectantly, as though Benoit would actually be able to contribute to this conversation. There was only one thing which had bothered him, so he asked.
“Your English. It’s good but not perfect.”
“I am Israeli.”
“Do you speak other languages?” he asked, but realized as it came out that it was not in English.
“You speak Hebrew?” she asked back in English, startled.
“He does now,” Fury interrupted. “Anything of relevance, Benny?”
“There is a delicious kosher Israeli restaurant not three blocks from here, a personal favorite of mine,” he continued in Hebrew. “I have always wondered if it’s truly authentic.” If he was going to do this, he might as well do it right.
“I swam.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You asked me how I got off the island of Genosha. I told you, ‘I swam.’ What’s confusing?”
Benoit was known as something of a charmer amongst his social circle and Parisian elite. But a woman who heard things that weren’t there - well it was certainly a challenge. Fury, who had been left out of the loop in all of this Hebrew, exhaled dramatically in impatience.
He tried again. “Would you like to grab some dinner tonight? There is a wonderful Israeli restaurant just nearby.”
She blinked heavily as though coming out of a daydream. “I would love to. Will your friend be joining us?” She nodded to the empty chair besides Benoit. A woman who heard and saw things that weren’t there. Benoit tsked. What kind of woman had Fury saddled him with? He wanted to ask exactly that, but Fury spoke nothing but English, and asking such a ridiculous question in front of Zoe in a language she could understand was certainly going to offend. He wondered, not for the first time, what her mutant power was. Fury had never bothered to share if he knew, or probe if he didn’t.
He realized that he had left her question hanging. “Of course.” He switched to English. “Nick, Zoe and I are starving.” If not the reason he wanted to finally end the meeting, it was certainly true; Benoit had spent all of yesterday fasting in preparation for the Pari Fermier. Oh but that seemed so long ago. How long had he been trapped in this office? “We’re going to grab a bite. Have a good night.”
“What about the Friends of Humanity? That man who attacked me? My mission?” Zoe grew more panicked with each question.
“Relax,” he answered in Hebrew. “There’s nothing we can do about it tonight.” He hesitated for a moment. He hated doing this to Cammy, and to Babette. “You can stay at my place tonight, I have an extra bed. I’m sure I can find a change of clothes for you.” Not from previous guests, as Fury had implied. “We’ll come back early tomorrow and get everything sorted out. You need rest.”
Zoe chuckled bitterly, but it was a joke lost on Benoit.