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AN: Believe me, I'm as eager as you are to see where this story's headed. Dang, if it ain't the muse on *fire*. To my dear 'shippers, whether Remy/Ro or Logan/Ro, I ain't sure where this is headed, so hang on tight. It's gonna be a bumpy ride...

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  Wonderland

         Ororo never forgot her last 'Nawlins' Mardi Gras--it was the last time she felt free to justify her illegal actions by vilifying the human race. She had felt superior to homo sapiens. She felt annoyed by their idiocy and by their weakness. Their stupidity to prance around half-naked for cheap plastic beads while toppling in their own vomit. It was a joy to take their money. A fitting penance for them being so dammed stupid and uncaring. They deserved it, and she showed no mercy towards them.

A tiny tornado blew a stack of fetid fliers and confetti past Ororo's feet. The air stank of refuse and grenadine, whisky and piss--and she hated that the smell thrilled her. That was then, she mused quietly. This is another time. Another me.

Is it? Her mind countered sharply and she didn't have enough energy to argue with it. She left her family, her home. And for what? For a stupid postcard from a friend  she hadn't seen in nearly a decade? She had been quietly searching for him for a week but the influx of crowds and noise and claustrophobic nonsense hampered her, and she often retreated to the safety of an overpriced hotel just to breathe again. She couldn't deny that deep inside she was still that scared, imperious brat.  Otherwise, she would not have come. That was the only reason.

Or was it?

Another frosty chill clung to her shoulders and forced her to hug her  duster close to her chest. She rarely felt cold but this feeling was of a deeper frost, one from inside her body.  The old memories assaulted her and pinned her against the scrollwork storefronts, kissed her roughly against the streetlamps, grabbed her and straddled her in the dank alleys of the Red Light district. She bravely stood against the memories but her own conscience battled her now. Leaving was a mistake. Coming was a mistake. She felt the chill because the underworld was calling to her and...Blast. She missed it.

"Damn you," she muttered aloud. "Damn you and our shitty loyalties to each other."

Her lip quirked sadly. Oh, yes. You can take the girl from the street...

The wind howled and she wasn't entirely sure if it wasn't of her own making. The streets were desolate, empty, and cruel at the rather late 8am hour. This was the morning after Mardi Gras where no one moved, save for the drunkards waking from their bourbon-induced slumbers wondering where their partners went and where they parked their car and where their hotel was. In the distance, Ororo heard the gentle tap of the policemen's nightsticks as they rattled the dark places and commanded the once possessed to return to their calm, boring routines. Businesses didn't open until late. Everyone was hungover. Even teetotalers felt the sudden release of everyone's tension at once, and remained in bed complaining of headaches and sick stomachs.

            The wind screamed again and Ororo started, hearing it whisper her name. She heard voices, scattered bits of conversation. Nawlins is ours, Stormy, it said, nibbling her ear, sending decadent warmth through her cheeks. You an' me, we got 'em on the run. Time for de street rats to live a little, eh?

            She shook the dialogue from her head. It was smooth as velvet, rich as chocolate. Covered her in security and touched a part of her that no one knew about. Thrilled her. Fascinated her. Tempted her.

It was the devil himself. And she was returning to him.

"Damn you, damn you!"

Her voice echoed and bounced off the narrow streets. A deep roll of thunder and a streak of lightning punctuated her anger. Control? She didn't have it here. Why did she ever come? How foolish was she? She should return, go right back home, beg forgiveness, and--

            An odd, hot feeling tickled the back of her neck like the caressing lips of a new lover. She stopped and looked sharply ahead, seeing a post-Mardi Gras reveler lean half-drunkenly against a lamp post while staring directly at her. Although his body was undeniably masculine and taut in all the right places, something was wrong with his head. She tentatively approached and saw the reason: A mask covered his face. A cheap plastic children's mask that looked like a black cat from a child's reading primer. Her feet froze to the pavement and she hesitated but the man noticed her paused steps. He lifted his mask partway--just enough to expose a chiseled, whiskered jaw--and took a long drink from a pint bottle hidden in his pocket.

The action woke Ororo enough to take another slow pace forward but the man saw her, snapped his mask back in place, and rolled off the lamppost until his body paralleled its rigid straightness.

            Ororo's lips formed the name she hadn't spoken in years. The spell that rooted her feet to the ground broke and her steps quickened, but the man didn't want that. He whipped away from her while his black duster floated about his body like unfurled wings and crossed the street before she was too close. She followed, not quite understanding this strange game of Follow the Leader, but felt frustrated that he wouldn't let her approach.

            "Don't--I won't hurt you," she said quietly. She nervously checked her shoulder, absently looking for police and other assorted officers of the court. Not to seek their aid, but hoping no one followed.

"Wait!"

             But his pace had increased and she found it difficult to keep up with his long strides without using her mutant power. She could call the wind to her, seeing how there were few people about, but she was afraid now. Afraid of being caught by people worse than officers and mutant-haters.

             She began jogging towards him, just as he dipped behind a dilapidated building, but slowed when she realized where he'd taken her. These were the places not even drunkards came, where the voodoo priestesses and crime bosses performed the darkest of ceremonies. Evil surrounded these walls, these blocks, and everyone stayed far away, fearful of the curse against them if they didn't. Her legs faltered but still she ran, following him deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole...

                Rounding the corner she stopped short. The small alley dead ended, protected by a tall, graying picket fence acting as sentry. There was no way out and yet her White Rabbit had disappeared, vanished.

                "No," she commanded. "You will not escape me that easily."

                As if answering a slight breeze awakened a torn and dirty screen door with peeling pine green paint; the wind pumped it uselessly, slamming it against the building's side. The tainted smell of grease and potatoes accompanied each slam and made her stomach rumble, reminding her that her last meal had been two days ago. She smiled slightly and entered  the alley on the balls of her cat-like feet. The wind sent a strong force against her face, both beckoning and rebuffing her attempts to enter. She curled her fingers around the door and stilled another bang against the red brick building, but she found herself crossing the threshold, despite the warnings screaming at her in the back of her mind. She couldn't turn back now. Wouldn't.

                Darkness covered her softly and lovingly. She let her eyes adjust to the dark but jumped when a huge wind gust suddenly swung the screen door in, trapping her inside. For some reason she wasn't afraid, though she knew she should have been. She heard sounds to the right of her, of pots banging, and of laughter...hidden and cocooned, sweet and comforting. The smell of sweet potato pancakes and red beans and okra and hot spices tickled her senses and the smell lead her to a spillage of light between a half-closed door. She approached it and put her hand on the knob, noticing that the side door was covered in the same dark green peeling paint as the door on the outside.

                "Dang, girl, if dat ain't de hottest peppah in de bunch," someone yelled loudly. "G'head, put dat on de menu nex' time. Whoo-eeee, I like it like dat."

                More chuckles, more laughs. She stood transfixed by the doorjamb and saw a large gunmetal gray commercial stove covered in flames. Her breath caught until a female chef clad in an ivory apron scooted past her eyes and turned down the burner.

                "Emily--! What de hell you playin' at, chil'?" The chef shouted. "You t'inkin' o' burnin' down de entiah kitchen b'fo de lunch crowd come, or you jus' stupid, neh?"

                Ororo giggled and the chef heard her. The woman turned, her face dark as midnight, and a scowl deepened the wrinkles on her prematurely aged face. "We ain't open yet," the woman grunted. "G'wan nah. Y'hear? Tu parles Francais?" The woman clucked her tongue at Ororo's blank stare. Yes, she understood French. But she could not move. Could not speak. "Etranger foulle ," the chef muttered, but she ignored Ororo and went back to her oven. 

                Ororo's heart hammered fast from the exchange and she stepped back from the hidden door, only to bump into a tall, muscular man whose darkness rivaled the woman's in the kitchen.  She gasped involuntarily since she hadn't heard his approach, hadn't seen how he faded from the darkness and into the corridor. "You in de wrong place," he said quietly. His dark voice was warm, like the kitchen. "Go upstairs."

He pointed around the corner where she could just make out the slant of old, creaky wood steps. "Thank you," she whispered, and he nodded to her as if a special secret was suddenly shared. Her feet padded soundlessly across the wooden corridor but despite her silence a few weak floorboards shot their alarm through the building, signaling her approach. At the bottom of the staircase another room--wide open this time, without doors to protect its occupants--presented round card tables beneath starched tablecloths, topped with dried flowers in reused salad dressing bottles.

"Y'come back in anothah hour, girl," she heard to the side. She hadn't seen the woman setting the tables in the corner but the woman had apparently seen her, despite not glancing up from her chores. Silver flashed white beneath her ebon fingers as she carefully placed spoons, knives, and forks upon pristine napkins. "We got food for ya then."

"I will," she promised, and she meant it. She was too hungry now. The only thing stopping her from staying was waiting for her upstairs. Or so she hoped.

She placed her foot on each narrow stair carefully, wondering how old they were. No banister protected her but the weather-worn, grooved planks steadied her feet as if designed for her light steps. Each stair creaked under her weight but she enjoyed each minor thundershot since it reminded her of other times. These times.

A cracked window met her at the top of the stair and a large teardrop crystal hung from its eaves, sending multicolored patterns against her face. She squinted a little from the light but saw enough through it to catch a shadow in the window pane--the shadow of something behind her. She quickly turned to her left and watched part of a dark jeaned leg and half a duster scurry into the third room. The second floor was tight and cramped, and nearly set off her claustrophobia with its smallness, and the games were suddenly making her dizzy. Her head swam as she slowly crept down the hallway, and she was glad for the small white banister that protected her from tumbling to the first floor.

"I tire of this," she said, meaning her words as a threat. They sounded more like a frustrated moan in the back of her throat. "I will leave now, if you do not show yourself."

Silence met her. Anger churned within her. He knew she would come, knew he would stay hidden and she would look for him. The same as when they were children.

"Blast you, did you not--"

She paused at the doorway and caught him poised and serene, beautiful and magnificent. The same as she left him long ago. He stood with his back towards her and his hands clasped behind him, and stared from a bay window that edged forward to reveal a small, rickety balcony.  The window was open and a gentle breeze blew the satin curtains back, wrapping him in a pale gauze of heraldic white. Her breath caught. Despite her reservations, her heart beat faster. Damn. He hadn't changed--she hadn't changed. His beauty was still legendary and she was falling for it all over again.

"Chere," his voice purred. He still had not turned to face her. "Merci."

"What do you want," she asked, when she had the courage to speak. She approached the room cautiously. She saw a rolltop desk inside, a bed wrapped in a white granny quilt, and a Victorian dresser but little else. "Why did you send that postcard? Why did you write 'Stuck in Tokyo' if you are not in any real danger?"

"Oh, don't misunderstand me, chere. I wasn't jokin'. In fact, I'm in de biggest danger of m'life."

His voice was deeper than she remembered it, even more hypnotic. Even more soothing. Her mouth went dry but she closed the gap between them until she was inches from his graceful, muscular back.

"What danger?"

"If I tell you, chere, you in it. No backin' out, no second guessin'. Can y'handle dat, Stormy?"

"If I told you once," she whispered. Her hands came up to touch the mask and he turned slightly, letting her take the elastic over the back of his ears, letting her peel it off his face, exposing the beautiful, strong face covered in thick auburn hair and five o'clock shadow. Exposing those eyes, those beautiful devil eyes the color of hard, glittering rubies. The eyes that stared at her. Stared through her.

"I've told you a hundred times. Don't call me Stormy."

A wicked smirk tested the corners of his wide, angelic mouth. "You all grown up, padnat. You t'ink you ready for dis?"

Ororo's mind whirled. No backing out, no second guessing. He was asking her to turn her back on ten years of good behavior. Ten years of family.  Ten years of safety.  Ten years of boredom. Ten years of hiding her true self and bottling her emotions in a pressure cooker of frustration.

Time for de street rats to live a little, eh?

Her dark lips mimicked his smirk. "Goddess help me. I miss it."

He laughed and picked her up, twirling her around the room. "Dat's my Stormy. Y'can take the brat off de streets--"

"--but ya can't take de street off de brat," she responded, imitating his Cajun drawl. "In for a penny, in for a pound, Remy."

"Yep. In f'r a penny, in f'r a pound." He put her back down and ran a gloved hand through her hair, then lightly kissed her forehead.  "T'anks, Stormy. I appreciate it. You ain't gonna regret it."

I probably will, a hidden part of her answered, but she swallowed the words. Instead she listened to the rush in her ears: Life. Liberty...Freedom.

This time, she thought, caressing Remy's cheek, the challenges looked beautiful.

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