“You have your revenge!” the old man screamed, glaring at the dark figure before him. “Does it give you peace, killing her?” he demanded, voice hoarse.
Blood dripped from his extended claws, adding to the stains on the once white kimono of the motionless woman at his feet. He kept his eyes fixated on the lifeless body, making no movement as the large wounds across his torso closed. It was done.
The Wolverine watched the man scramble to the mutilated body of his mistress. “No, Kiro,” he informed the crying man dispassionately, “Only Yuriko achieved it this day.” He sheathed his claws and walked away, the sound of anguished sobs following him.
The agents of the Hand watched him cross the large courtyard, making no move to stop the assassin who had just dispatched their female leader Lady Deathstrike in a ferocious battle minutes before. They looked to Lord Kiro, and with no indication that he wanted the great warrior restrained, their hands remained weaponless by their sides, as the Wolverine disappeared into the shadows. Once outside the compound, he leapt into the large copse of trees that cascaded down the Japanese mountainside, quickly making his way across the landscape lit faintly by a full moon suspended in a cloudless sky.
His countenance was foreboding. Another enemy down, scores more to go. It’s been a year since he regained his memory, but there was much left for him to do.
The Wolverine existed only for revenge.
Dr. Henry McCoy pulled at the collar of his shirt, the movement threatening to burst the seams of the already tight fitting jacket of his tuxedo. Ororo Monroe sent him a warning glance and he stopped fidgeting immediately, settling down beside the beautiful mutant adorned in a sequined midnight blue gown. Beside the pair were Professor Charles Xavier and Scott Summers, both men dressed impeccably in black tuxedos themselves. They patiently looked to the stage, its six storied red velvet curtain yet to pull up to begin the evening’s performance.
La Scala was in fine form tonight; the Milanese crowd within its historic walls muted in their conversations despite the tense excitement in the air. The sounds of the orchestra warming up drifted up to them; violin strings strumming; wistful clarinets exhaling before the conductor rapped his wand sharply against the stand in front of him. The lights dimmed in response and a hush came over the crowd as the three opening chords of the Scarpia motif resounded ominously through the famed auditorium. Eight pairs of eyes were unblinking, waiting for “Floria Tosca” to make her appearance. And then, there she was.
Professor Xavier smiled. The reactions of the three people beside him were almost as entertaining as the performer on stage. He could hear Hank’s strangled gasp as the soprano’s voice rose up powerfully and Ororo pinched him; her eyes narrowing to keep him quiet, although her mouth had fallen open in shock.
Scott simply stared.
What a sight she was. Anna Marie D’Ancanto – Anina as she was adoringly referred to in the opera circuit – was giving the last performance of her famed career. She was Floria Tosca, the glorious singer deeply in love with the doomed artist Mario Cavaradossi and her suffering was palpable, her fury inciting. When she began to sing “Vissi d’arte” just before the end of Act Two, the exquisite coloratura of her soprano range cascaded over the distinguished crowd sitting at the edge of their seats. The haunting interpretation of the prayer libretto transcended them; the small form dressed in voluptuous scarlet robes seemed almost a trick. How could something so delicate expose such vocal strength? How could such youth be capable of taking hold of their hearts with such heartfelt angelic keening?
Even from where the X-Men sat, the emotions conveyed by Anina were genuine. As she delivered the final canto of the famous aria, everyone could hear the slight catch of her breath, an audible sob, before the lights dimmed and the curtain fell, stealing Anina away from their captivated sights.
Scott was the first to jump to his feet as thunderous applause exploded all around him, calls ringing out throughout the large theatre. Beast bellowed “Brava! Brava! Bravissima!” while Ororo covered her mouth with trembling hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. The applause continued, and the crowd’s appreciation only grew in volume as minutes passed. There came the stomping of feet above them from the loggionisti, with demands to see her, chanting her name.
“Anina! Anina! Anina!”
The conductor walked up from the pit and disappeared to the left of the stage. Moments later, he reappeared, leading Anina by the hand to the centre of the stage, releasing her with a dramatic flourish and expansive smile. The internationally acclaimed conductor took a few steps back, clapping his hands together forcefully and the orchestral members stood up as well, joining in the acclaim. The large crowd became frenetic. Anina surveyed the scene before her with wondrous eyes, taking in as much as she could, before tears blinded her, her advanced senses overwhelmed.
Do you see me, Daddy? Do you see me?
She knew this was the penultimate moment of her career. This made every sacrifice, every lonely, tired day and night as she perfected her craft, worth it. Her father had only asked one thing of her before he passed away, and she achieved it. For him.
Blowing kisses in every direction, pressing her hands to her heart with a mouthed, “Grazia” she left the stage, humbled. After the curtains came down for the last time later that night, and after repeated acquiescence to the audience to express their adoration for their Anina, she bowed with her fellow cast mates a final time, emotionally exhausted.
She found herself surrounded by a sea of roses, strewn across the stage in deference to her, and she bent down to grab a fistful of the fragrant blooms to press them to her face. She breathed in their delicate scent and mentally instructed herself to remember this exact moment in its every detail; the smell of the flowers, the dryness in her mouth; the rash of goose bumps across her flesh as she listened to the sounds of the still rapturous crowd. She opened her eyes and spun around slowly, taking in the gorgeous set, the riggings, the lighting and scenery just off to the side of the historic stage before she whispered her goodbyes and walked away.
The cast, ensemble choir, musicians, wardrobe and stage crew had a party in full swing backstage and she joined in the fun, grabbing one of the many bottles of champagne provided as her friends encircled her, chanting encouragingly, mimicking the chant from earlier.
“Anina! Anina! Anina!”
She popped its cork toward the ceiling and tilted the large bottle into her mouth, her throat struggling to swallow the quickly emptying fizzy liquid. She began to choke and sputtered explosively, prompting an older man to approach her and rub her back, laughing hard.
“Are you alright, Anna-Marie?”
She nodded, wiping moisture from her eyes. “I’m just fine, Oliver!” She placed the almost empty champagne bottle back on a table and hugged him tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, voice cracking from emotion. “Thank you. For all of this.”
The small portly man returned the hug. “No, no Anna-Marie. Thank you.” He held her at arm’s length and regarded the beautiful woman in front of him before speaking again. “Who would have thought that after losing my protégé so long ago, she would return back to me to take the world by storm? That the little nine year old who disappeared from the Lynwood Academy for Girls without a trace would return eleven years later to fulfill her destiny, hmm?” His eyes filled with tears. “To think, my student, singing in all the greatest opera houses of the world. In La fucking Scala!”
Eyes wide, she shushed him, dissolving in a fit of giggles at the shocked expressions on the faces of the people who heard him. Her tutor and manager was clearly drunk, his southern gentleman demeanor on an inebriated hiatus. Wrapping an arm around him, she led him away from the party, apologizing profusely as she begged off her friends’ entreaties to join them for some late night celebrating. After ensuring Oliver Tremblant was safely ensconced in a hired car to deliver him back to his hotel, she made her way a little unsteadily to her dressing room. The champagne she had consumed so quickly had managed to make her a little tipsy, but by the time she reached her room, she was clear headed. She growled in annoyance. It would have been nice to enjoy the pleasant buzz a little longer, for once.
Walking in, she was amazed to see vases upon vases of red roses taking up every available space in the tiny room. Smiling, she sat at her dressing room table and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The woman smiling back at her with the outrageously puffed hair and now ruined theatrical makeup looked so happy. Her smile widened as she reached for the large jar of cold cream from the makeup console, understanding for the first time what it meant to live in the moment. It felt incredible. Bracing herself, she ripped off the fake eyelashes that rimmed her eyes before slathering the cream liberally over her face, grimacing in reaction to its horrendous smell. Leaving it on to work its magic, she shimmied out of her costume and put on a white terry robe, kicking the flats off her feet. She was tearing a thick brush through the backcombed mess that was her hair, when she heard a knock at the door.
Smiling, she threw open the door dramatically, intent on shooing her drunk colleagues away, but instead, dropped the brush to the ground in surprise. For a moment, her visitors looked as surprised as her, seeing her in what could only be described as the exact opposite of the performer they saw on stage. Her dark hair stood up in varying directions, her face completely covered in white gunk, dressed in a bulbous garment and her feet bare. Quickly picking up the dropped brush, Anina gaped at the quartet.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” exclaimed Hank, pushing past everyone and sweeping her up in his arms exuberantly, not caring that the cold cream smeared across his blue fur. “You were magnificent, Rogue! Absolutely, unequivocally spectacular!”
Laughing, she replied, “Thank you, Henry,” as he put her back down, startled by the sound of her old name.
Ororo reached for her hands, eyes shining brightly. “Sweetheart, you have the voice of an angel. You were extraordinary.”
Anina embraced her, taking care to not ruin her evening gown. “Thanks ‘Ro, that means so much to me.” She turned to Professor Xavier. “So tell me Charles, did you prefer this performance to the Met’s?”
Professor Xavier answered with a smile. “This performance was the most memorable. I think you left a bit of your soul on that stage, Anina.”
Looking up at him, Anna Marie’s heart squeezed at his insightfulness. He had been a part of this journey since its beginning, and she was grateful he remained to its end. At her question imparted telepathetically, he answered, “The children are excited, and are looking forward to seeing you again.”
Nodding happily, she turned her attention to the tall man who stood beside the Professor. “Scott?”
The X-Men leader reached out to rub away some of the cold cream that had found its way into her hair. Her eyes widened slightly at the tender gesture, and catching her reaction, he quickly dropped his hand to his side. “I had no idea you could sing,” he told her quietly in a low, intimate voice. She found herself at a loss for words, her cheeks warming. An awkward silence fell between them, and she tucked the hair that Scott had touched behind her ear, self-conscious.
“That,” declared Beast, “was the understatement of the year.” He looked about the room and clapped his hands, rubbing them together briskly. “Looks like a florist’s shop in here! We’ll help you bring everything to your hotel, my dear.”
Still blushing, Anna Marie stepped back to her dressing table and grabbed a face towel. “Thank you Hank, but my assistant will be delivering these flowers to the area hospitals and churches tomorrow morning,” she told him as she began to rub away her makeup. “It’s an understanding at La Scala amongst its performers.” She stepped behind a screen in the corner of the room, quickly pulling on the pair of blue jeans and simple green blouse that she had worn to the venue. She gathered up the remainder of her still tangled hair with both hands, and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. “Sorry that I am so underdressed,” they heard her say and the woman they knew as Rogue reappeared before them.
The X-Men stared at her, taking in her appearance, free of artifice. She looked the same, eerily so, but there was something different about her. Professor Xavier cleared his throat, snapping them out of it and Ororo recovered first, linking her arm through her younger friend’s. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re here to see you, not your fancy diva clothes! Though I have to ask, how were you able to dye your white streak successfully away?”
Anna Marie reached up and fingered the hair along her forehead. “Brown powder. I still can’t dye it.” She rubbed a portion of it and sure enough, the familiar white strands gleamed through.
“Well good,” Ororo said, shaking the rest of the powder away. “I have always liked it.”
Anina laughed, looking pointedly at the other woman’s platinum hair. “How surprising.” They leaned into each other fondly.
“Well then,” Professor Xavier exclaimed affably, “How about we make our way to an establishment of fine refreshment? I have it on good authority that these premises need to be vacated by midnight, sharp.”
Beast rolled his eyes. “Showoff,” the doctor muttered under his breath good naturedly. The group of five friends lined up to leave the tiny room and Anna Marie took a deep breath and shut off the light, closing the door quietly behind her before catching up with them.
She was ready.