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

A/N: This "What If" story comes from a challenge someone sent me,

to try an action 'Ro/Lo story instead of a 'Ro/Lo romance.

We'll see how long I can keep them away from the sheets.

Anyway, I started thinkin' about the comics, and what's going on,

and my brain started tickin'...and this is what it came up with.

I bow to my strange, warped, and fickle interpretation of the characters.

Now, is it just me, or does the "new" Wolverine seem a little crude?

Ah, well. It's all part of the charm, right?

Timeframe: Between X-Treme X-Men #3 and #4.

Tagline: What if after the deadly XXM #3 fiasco,

the thirst for revenge consumed Ororo's soul?

Even then, she still needs help to track a man as deadly as Vargas.

She can't do it alone...

If you haven't read X-Treme X-Men #3, shame on you!

MAJOR SPOILER ALERT! You've been warned.

 ******************

Fallen Angels

Rome, Italy, 4:17 am. Thursday.

"Hrrrank. Hrrrrraugh."

The noise was supposed to rattle her. It didn't. He shrugged, opened the car door, and hocked a thick one a few feet from their brown sedan. His eyes briefly traveled across her stony expression but those damned binoculars barely moved. Still...barely was the key word. His lip quirked. She was a seething thunderstorm inside--he could smell it.

He closed the creaky door and sat back in the passenger seat, causing the right half of the car to groan, and tipped his cowboy hat over his eyes.

"That is a disgusting habit."

"Ain't it though?" He sniffed and put his hands beneath his head. "Admit it. You missed me, darlin'."

"How could anyone miss a wretched noise like that," she muttered, but the faint smile on her lips told him the truth. It was the first time he'd seen her smile since he got here--'bout time, too, considering how hard she was taking Betsy's death. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like admitting it, but her death affected him just as hard. He wondered if this was how Jeannie and Slim felt, after all their deaths and resurrections.

Damn telepathic links.

"Why don't'cha get yerself some sleep, Storm. It ain't like anyone's comin' from that building any time soon."

"How do you know?"

"I just do," he growled, flipping on his side. "Call it dumbass intuition if you want, I don't care. I've got jetlag, an' I mean to make up fer it."

The binoculars came down slightly, and her eyes bore through his back. A slim, snowy eyebrow shot up. "You mean to tell me that you are still jetlagged, after three days? Surely your healing factor would have caught up to you by now. You go to and from Japan all the time."

"Yeah, an' I get some decent sleep when I get over there," he snapped. "I ain't had a chance ta catch up this time. If I'd slept, we'd've lost the trail. You already said yer team weren't in no shape to go after 'im."

His words cut her deeply and he knew it. But he'd never been a tactful man. Besides, he was the only one who could tell it to her straight without getting a lightning bolt up the ass. She'd been sloppy, and he'd taught her better than that. They were mutants, dammit, and you don't just waltz inta someone's country flashin' around fancy credit cards without someone else takin' notice.

But what bugged him the most was that she closed herself from the world. If they were going to get through this alive, he had to punch where it hurt until she broke. Then they could find this Vargas motherfucker and dig a six-foot hole for him and his two bitches.

"Shoulda brought Bish along. We coulda used an extra man on this."

"No," she said sharply, and he rolled back over to face her. He tipped his hat to look into her eyes, and the blue, cat-like orbs were glacier cold. "I will not involve him, or any of my team with this. I told them I needed a few days, and Bishop is officially in charge in my absence. They need time to recover and grieve."

"While you want somethin' as simple as revenge." He grunted and the hat came back down. "If that ain't the pot callin' the kettle shit, I dunno what is."

Her jaw worked slightly, but she said nothing. Didn't even move, except to continue staring through the binoculars.

"They're your people, 'Ro. They trust ya...you shouldn't go behind their backs."

"Go to sleep, Wolverine," she said gently. "I will continue the watch.

The iron underneath her smooth alto voice was unmistakable. He'd wait for another opportunity to push her buttons. "Fine, whatever. But trust me, we ain't gonna get shit outta this 'til sunrise, if then. You should get some sleep."

"I will," she lied.

"Suit yerself," he shrugged. He rolled back on his side and tried to get enough sleep for both of them.

*     *     *

Salem Center, New York, 3:34 am. Last Monday.

Beep, Beep, Beep...

He ripped the covers off the bed, momentarily forgetting where he was. "Fuck..."

Wolverine usually hated being awakened from a sound sleep, but since his dream had quickly turned into another nightmare, he wasn't as upset as he could've been. It was a repeat of the time Creed ripped Betsy to shreds--only this time, they didn't make it in time. He came upon her body, and Sabretooth had been laughing because he'd missed saving her by seconds. He'd had the same dream for the past few days and he was getting a little fucking tired of it.

He shook his head to clear it, wondering where the hell that beeping was coming from. Wasn't the mansion switchboard. Wasn't the intruder alarm. Wasn't...he paused, suddenly remembering, and rubbed his face tiredly. He almost understood why the others left. Almost did. They had to get away, had to do something to stop from feeling bored and defeated after Moira's death. Then Peter died, and well...he told her about it, but she didn't want to come back. Besides, he only got to tell her about Petey's death a few days after his funeral. He'd tried earlier, dammit, but he couldn't reach her because of her blasted radio silence. A week later he received a package with no return address. A cell phone was inside.

He still wasn't sure why she'd left, though. No, that was a damn lie. He was sure. He just didn't want to think about it.

Logan slammed back the desk drawer and discovered the ringing phone shoved in the back, where no one could easily get to it. He growled in frustration and was a few seconds short of stabbing it with his claws, until his thick hand finally wrapped around the receiver. He stabbed the "Talk" button, but his voice was rough from sleep. He also wanted to keep it low, so the others wouldn't hear him. It was 'Ro's flamin' business if she still wanted to stay incognito.

"Miss me already? Thought you weren't gonna call unless--"

"Betsy's dead," Ororo said coldly.

She gave him time to adjust to the shock. The nightmares, the weird headaches, the strange emptiness in his head--it all made sense now. He should've realized it sooner. Part of him did, but he didn't want to believe it. He sat back on the edge of the bed before his trembling knees gave out.

"When," he growled. "Who?"

"Last night, by someone named Vargas. Wolverine," her voice was smoother than ice, and he wasn't sure if he liked the feeling welling up in his gut. "I want you to help me track him. I need your help."

It didn't take him more than five minutes to pack enough clothes and crap for a week, and he was out on the first available international flight without anyone else knowing about it.

*     *     *

The Artesia De Jour TGV rolled into the Milan train station a few seconds before its scheduled arrival. It was fast enough to make the trek from Paris to Milan in a few short hours, and he barely had time to take a nap. He checked his watch, and changed the time to match the antique in the center of the platform. 6:30 pm? What the hell day was it? He hoisted his bags on his shoulder, barely waited for the train to stop before jumping onto Platform 26, and lit a cigar. Ororo told him to meet her beneath the giant timetable next to the first newsstand on the left once his train arrived. Why they couldn't just meet at the airport? Her misfits probably got into more trouble again--police weren't as picky about train stations as they were about airports. Sounded like more cloak and dagger shit, but he obeyed. She was the only leader he ever completely obeyed.

He spied the timetable and began walking towards it when the smell of sandalwood merged with his cigar.

"You are forty minutes late."

She'd fallen in step with his stride, and her stance had become stiff and military-like. "Missed the connection, 'Ro. Had to catch the next one."

She nodded, accepting his excuse, and glanced over her shoulder. "We should get going."

"Why? You bein' followed?"

"I...I am uncertain," she said. He tapped the ashes from his cigar and got a good look at her. She'd gone more undercover than usual by donning a dark wig with the simple European jeans and jacket look. But despite the huge sunglasses framing her face she still appeared tired and worn out. He didn't like seeing her this paranoid or off her feed. Wasn't like his bosslady at all.

"Take it easy," he said slowly. He grabbed her arm and walked her to a bench. He sat down, and pulled her arm hard enough to force her to sit with him. "If you are bein' followed, you need to make them come to us. We shouldn't look like two scared rabbits. Let's talk. You need ta relax."  

She nodded and removed her sunglasses. Tinted brown contacts, he noted with a frown. What the hell was she running from? Her breathing slowed but her nerves were still tighter than a G-string at a bachelor party.

"Thank you for coming, Logan."

"Anytime, Goddess." He touched her hand, and she squeezed his fingers with her other hand. If his knuckles weren't full of adamantium, her grip probably would've broken a few of his fingers. "Last I heard, you folks were in Spain."

"Some are," she said cryptically. "Others are not. Henry...Henry was gravely injured, but he should be in New York by now."

"'Ro..." he began softly, but he saw the tension in her face. He came for two reasons, actually. To put Vargas in a grave, and to see how she was holding up. He didn't know how soon they'd get to Vargas, but 'Ro sure looked close to death. "Tell me what happened. How..." He choked on the word. "How'd this asshole get Betts?"

She told him. The words tumbled from her lips with about as much emotion as a news report, but he could feel her rage bubbling beneath the surface and smell the doubt and the fear that her words masked. She should have protected her people better. Should have been close enough to protect Betsy, Hank, and Rogue, should have been a better leader, should have overtaken the Guardia Civil, should've taken the asshole seriously, shouldn't have left in the first place...etc. Ororo didn't say those things out loud, but Logan smelled it in her soul.

"He wants to execute my people one by one, Logan, and I want to prevent that from happening. I want Vargas," she said callously. She stood proudly and paced before him in all her regal glory. Her hands began closing into tight fists. "I want you to help me get him."

"Shouldn't yer team be helpin' ya there? They probably want him as much as you do."

She hesitated.

She's actually gonna try lyin' ta me, Wolverine thought. Who're you so goddamned afraid of?

"They should," she said softly. "But not this time."

He growled at her. "What the hell ain't you tellin' me, girl?"

She stopped pacing and pinched the top of her nose as if stilling a headache. Despite the contacts he could feel the chill through her eyes. "I want to kill this man. I want him dead, and I want you to help me kill him. Is that simple enough? As for the others...I don't want the others involved." She recited the mantra with a small sneer. "The X-Men do not kill."

Logan turned from her and surveyed a long stretch of track. He saw a train coming a mile down, but wasn't sure how fast it traveled. His eyes narrowed. "Aren'tcha forgettin' somethin'? You're an X-man, 'Ro."

The cold smirk twisted her full, dark lips. "Not anymore," she said quietly, and a chill ran up his spine.

*     *     *

Ororo's confidence and her calm resolve returned when they safely arrived at their hotel. The place wasn't all that hot, but it was decent. And the manager didn't give "Mr. and Mrs. Logan Perry" a second glance, since a short, ugly runt and an exotic, African model wouldn't faze the hotel manager in the least during the height of tourist season. For all the manager knew, "Mr. Logan Perry" was a studio director and "Mrs. Logan Perry" his latest conquest. In any case, no one thought of them suspiciously, which was just the way Logan liked it.

Once he felt comfortable enough that they weren't being followed in the train station, he told 'Ro that they shouldn't waste any time getting started. She'd already thought of that, and had their hotel room waiting for them. He sighed and tossed his bag in the room before entering. The dark place was the size of a closet, had a few cracks in the plaster and smelled of mold, but he'd lived in worse places. Logan smirked and tested the springs on the creaky metal bed. It wasn't a Sealy, but it'd do for his weight. "Just one room, 'Ro? One bed? You feelin' lucky, or somethin'?" He shouldn't have said it, but he was too wired to care.

She didn't laugh, but she wasn't upset, either. Just calmly cold, like the bezerker rage he kept locked deep in his mind. She turned on the bathroom light and stuck a finger in her eye, removing one of the colored contacts. "Limited funds."

"Gotcha." He sat back on the bed and kicked off his shoes. "Kinda tough goin' on without Chuck's money, huh?"

Ororo wasn't sure if he was teasing or not and watched him carefully from the mirror's corner. "You could say that."

"How'd you make it this far?"

"We all used some of our own funds. And Henry was kind enough to donate some of his own savings from the Avengers, and various science grants." She took off the wig and let her platinum hair tumble over her shoulders. Logan didn't care who the man was--no man alive could stare at that hair and not get turned on by it somehow. He stared at the back of her head a little longer than he wanted to and then switched on the rickety TV. He couldn't understand a word of it, but maybe he could get enough information from the pictures.

"Yeah?" He said absently. He grunted, realizing he'd have to get up to change the channels. Fuck it. If he couldn't understand it, he didn't need to change the channels. "Must've been a small fortune. So what now?"

"Pardon?" She hissed slightly, feeling the sting of over-worn contacts.

"Money, 'Ro. You gonna take up stealing again, or what?"  She was a little too quiet, and he didn't like it. "Ororo?"

"No. We will not steal. We have other means." He wasn't sure if he believed her or not, but she came out of the bathroom with her tousled hair, and he forgot to grill her about it. She blinked fiercely, pulled her bag from the bathroom, and unzipped it. Logan expected to see a ton of hair products and clothes, but instead she had more tracking shit than the CIA. It looked like the only clothes she brought were the ones on her back. His eye roved over the equipment.

"You weren't kiddin' about findin' this Vargas guy."

"We need to find him before he finds us." She glanced at him. Her coldness unnerved him, and he bit back a growl. "Here. Look at this."

He grabbed the magazine she'd thrown and uncurled it. "What am I supposed ta be lookin' at?"

"There are two men in that shot," she said, rummaging in the suitcase. "I found that issue at the library. The man in the gray jacket owns a small museum in Milan. The other is Vargas."

Wolverine's eyes hardened. "You sure?"

Ororo's voice became low and dangerous. "I watched him kill my friend, Logan. He almost killed three of my friends. Yes. I am sure."

He took a cigar from his front pocket and twisted it in his hands a few times. He studied the man's face--he didn't seem like such a threat, not even close. But if he had the balls, the firepower, and the mental strength to take out Betts, he was stronger than he looked. "We'll get 'im, 'Ro."

"Or die trying," she said. She wasn't joking.

He threw the magazine onto her valise and lit his cigar. "So you wanna go straight for the big man himself?"

She barely shook her head and a faraway look tinged the cold eyes. "Vargas is too dangerous to find personally. He knows our steps, our moves...our powers. But that man in the photo seems to know something about Vargas we do not. I want to find him, and then I want him to lead us to our target."

"Seems like a plan." He caught the hesitation in her voice. "So? We start with the starched shirt and move our way up."

"I wish it were that simple, Logan. But the man in that picture--Antony DiPiazza--disappeared several weeks ago, and no one's heard from him since."

"Which is why you need me."

"Which is one reason I need you." She smirked, finding the weapon in the bottom of her bag. She put in a fresh clip for the luger and snapped it back. "The other is so I do not lose my killing edge."

"Fair enough," he said quietly. He certainly didn't feel calm or quiet about her words, but the decision was hers, not his. "But 'Ro, if yer thinkin' killing Vargas will somehow bring back Betts--"

She jammed the safety back on her weapon and tucked it behind her back. She refused to look at him. "Don't be an idiot, Wolverine. Nothing will bring Elizabeth back. But I cannot rest until Vargas dies. He is far too big a threat, for any of us."

"Just checkin'," he said, sucking a piece of food through his teeth. He popped a claw and maneuvered it between a tight bicuspid. "Blood fer blood's one thing. But don't expect ta feel vindicated. Y'do this for the wrong reason, an' you'll end up a bigger mess than when you started."

"I realize that, Logan. I also realize that the sooner we start, the sooner he dies."

Wolverine shrugged. She was lying to herself, and to him, but this was 'Ro's show. He just hoped he could break through her candy-coated shell before they got killed.

"What've you got on DiPiazza?"

She dumped a manila envelope filled with clippings and photographs. "These articles. Some I copied from the library, others I acquired from small galleries and so forth around the city. DiPiazza appears clean, on the surface. He could have mafia contacts, but I have yet to find such evidence. Apparently, Vargas is a collector of priceless Greek and Roman artifacts."

Logan dug through the pile and scattered the clippings across the floor. "You've been busy. Any of it worth anything?"

She traced a slim finger through the articles. "Not much. But from what I could gather, Vargas dealt exclusively with DiPiazza. No one else. I believe that when we find that connection, we will find the trail."

"Sounds right. I'll see what I can sniff out."

*     *    *

Rome, 7:24 am. Thursday.

It took Logan until Wednesday afternoon to track down DiPiazza's ex-assistant, Gina Geddes, but it only took a few short minutes of rummaging around her dumpster to find out what she was up to. He didn't need to know much Italian to see that she was transporting a whole lot of merchandise from Milan to Rome. Expensive shit, too.

"Logan."

"Huhn?" He stretched out the crick in his neck, removed his hat, and smoothed down the spikes in his hair. "What?"

"She turned on a light."

He grunted and gazed at the seventh house down. They were far enough away for anyone to expect much, and the neighborhood was rotten enough for people not to care if they sat waiting. Hell, this was mafia country. No one was dumb enough to go around pointing and calling the police.

"Probably goin' through her mornin' routine, 'Ro. She'll be out in another hour." He was about to roll back over for another short nap, but she touched him lightly on the shoulder. He growled a little. "C'mon, 'Ro, she's--"

"Someone else is coming."

He sat up now. A man in a dark business suit and pale grey tie cautiously floated around the front of her building smoking a cigar. To anyone else, he could've been waiting on a carpool or a bus.

"What do you make of him, Logan?"

"He ain't shy, I'll grant ya that."

Logan watched him a few moments longer before answering. "Either, he's takin' her down, or she owes him somethin'. Either way, she ain't got a clue what's comin'."

She nodded. "That's what I saw, too. He could be the police."

Logan scratched his beard. "Maybe. But I ain't seen many Italian cops who can afford those fancy loafers."

"Perhaps in the Guardia Civil they can," Ororo said ruefully. "We need to get him out of the picture. I want to talk to the girl before he does."

He cracked his knuckles and a slow grin spread across his face, but Ororo shook her head. Her grin nearly mimicked his as her eyes clouded, and a small crack of thunder shot the early morning to hell. The man looked nervously into the sky and turned his collar up, expecting the worst. He didn't know the half of it.

"Well, sure, he'll look like a drowned rat, but he ain't gonna leave his post, 'Ro."

"I'm not finished," she said softly. She clenched her fist and thin wire of lightning snaked from the sky, stabbing the man in the chest. He convulsed briefly before falling to the ground and Logan stared, dumbfounded.

"Is he--?"

"No. Just stunned. Very, very stunned," she said. Her lip turned into a small snarl. "I haven't time for games, Logan. Accept that, and neither one of us will have any cause for concern. Now let's hurry. We only have a few minutes before he awakens."

His jaw tightened but he got out of the car silently. He didn't know her anymore, which wasn't going to play too well out here--or with him.