Act I
1.
The news was splashed across the headline of every major newspaper in Mexico.
The police got the email as soon as it happened. It was coded Urgent. "Two American soldiers carrying classified government documents killed crossing the border. Suspect and possible accomplices headed for Tijuana. Round up all suspicious characters and search them for stolen documents."
Ororo Munroe, a beautiful light-skinned black woman with snow-white hair, stood behind the bar. Her eyes swept over the crowd, alert as ever to the subtle nuances of her surroundings.
In a shadowed booth, a couple of obvious mutants whispering heatedly with one of the town's many pawnbrokers, probably trying to raise enough money to buy exit visas. Over near the cage, a pair of women waiting for Logan, hoping to get lucky that night. ~Poor things,~ she thought. ~They never learn.~ At the other end of the bar, two American soldiers on leave, their presence a sure sign that the easy-going, mutant-friendly days in Tijuana would soon be a memory.
A man walked in then, and she stiffened. He was an old enemy, small but well-muscled, his skin an oily greenish hue.
"Storm," he said, his eyes never meeting hers, "I need to see Logan."
Her eyes moved over him with disdain. "Make an appointment, Toad. You know the rules."
Logan came out of his office then, and stalked toward the bar. He looked at Toad and said, "You. In back. Now."
"Logan -- "
"It's all right, Ororo," he said, jerking his head at the smaller man, who followed him back into the office.
"Too bad about those couriers, eh?" Toad said with false heartiness.
Logan shrugged. "Whatever. Yesterday, they were just two dumb guys. Today, they're 'honored war dead,' heroes of the United States."
"You're a very cynical man, if you'll forgive me for saying so," Toad replied.
"I forgive you." Logan's voice held no emotion at all.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and Toad realized how a mouse must feel when a cat is toying with it. "You hate me, don't you?" he said, unable to endure the quiet any longer.
Again, Logan shrugged. "If I gave you any thought, I probably would."
"But why?" Toad was truly puzzled. "Yes, we were enemies once, but now, all mutants must stick together. And who would help out all these poor persecuted people if I didn't? I manage to get them their papers and visas, get them on a boat or a plane to Canada, where it's safe for those of our kind."
"And you charge an arm and a leg to do it, Toad."
"True," he said, "but think of all the people who cannot afford to pay Remy their first-born child."
Logan didn't laugh at the joke. "I don't mind a parasite, bub, but I don't like a cut-rate one."
"Well, after tonight, you won't have to think of me at all, Logan. I'm leaving this hellhole for my lovely homeland down under."
"And who did you bribe for your visa? Remy or yourself?"
"Myself," Toad said ironically. "I'm much more reasonable." He pulled out an envelope from his pocket and put it on the desk between them. "Look, Logan, do you know what this is?" He tapped the envelope and the pitch of his voice rose with excitement. "Letters of transit signed by the Attorney General of the United States. Cannot be rescinded, or even questioned." Logan reached out and placed his hand on the envelope. "Hold on a second! Tonight, I'll be selling these for more money than even I have ever dreamed of. And then goodbye, Tijuana!
"You know, I have many friends here, but somehow, you're the only one I trust. Even though you hate me. Or perhaps because of it. Will you hold them for me? Please?"
"For how long?" Logan asked guardedly.
"An hour, maybe two."
"I don't want them here overnight," Logan growled.
"Don't worry about that," Toad replied. "Thanks."
He exited rapidly into the bar, but Logan followed right behind him. "You know, Mortimer," Toad flinched at the name, "I heard those soldiers were carrying letters of transit."
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then, "I heard that too, Logan. Poor bastards." He walked away and slid into his usual booth, in the back corner. Within seconds, he'd gathered a crowd, all looking to bet on tonight's fights.
His boss, Erik Lehnsherr, also known as Magneto, former leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants, entered the saloon and walked purposefully up to the bar. Magneto had been reduced to owning a café on the other side of town.
"Logan," he said, and even when he tried to be cordial, disdain dripped from his voice.
"What the hell do you want, Lehnsherr?" Logan growled.
"I'd like to buy the bar."
"It's not for sale."
Erik sighed. "You haven't even heard my offer."
"It's not for sale at any price, Lehnsherr."
"What about the lovely Ms. Munroe?" Erik asked.
"I don't buy or sell people," Logan snarled. "I'm not like you."
"It's a shame, Logan. People are Tijuana's leading commodity. If you were willing to work with me, we could make a fortune on the black market."
"Why don't you run your business and let me run mine, bub?"
"Perhaps Ms. Munroe should have a say?" Lehnsherr asked smoothly. He motioned and Ororo walked over. "My dear young lady, would you like to come and work for me at La Café de la Torre?"
"He'll pay you double what you make here," Logan threw in.
Ororo laughed. "I do not have time to spend what you pay me, Logan. I'm happy where I am." And she moved down the bar to serve another customer.
Logan shrugged. "Told ya."
Magneto scowled and left.
Logan stepped behind the bar momentarily, slid the envelope into the secret compartment beneath the refrigerator, and continued on into his office.
2.
A little later, that same evening…
Remy "The Gambit" LeBeau walked into the bar with a catlike grace. He was well-known in these parts -- there were whispers he'd collaborated with the US government, with the Brotherhood of Mutants, with the X-Men. No one knew quite where his loyalties lay, and for now, he was in the employ of the Mexican government. He was the provisional governor of the wild South-of-the-Border town of Tijuana. The Mexicans had recently signed a treaty with the Americans, and the rumor mill said that the anti-mutant sentiment so rampant in the States would be sweeping south soon. The only safe place was Canada -- but getting there was dangerous. Remy was the man to see if you needed papers. And everyone needed papers.
His strange red-on-black eyes scanned the room. It was crowded -- Sam's was always crowded. It was the only bar in town to hold cage fights, and it seemed there were very few things the inhabitants -- and transients -- in Tijuana enjoyed more than cage fights.
Ororo raised an eyebrow as he sat on a stool at the corner of the bar.
"A little early for you to be in here, is it not?" she asked.
He grinned. "To see the most beautiful woman in Tijuana, Remy get up at the crack o' dawn, chere." She rolled her eyes. "El jefe around?"
"He is not here at the moment, Remy. Can I help you?"
"Ma petite, if you would consent to be Remy's woman--"
"I think not."
"Then no, you can't help me," he said, shaking his head sadly and lighting up a cigarette.
"This is about the papers that went missing yesterday," she said sharply.
"Oui, mademoiselle. Papers, lives, these things are all for sale in Tijuana, most especially at Sim's."
"Sam's," she corrected, smiling over gritted teeth. "We know nothing about the papers, Remy. Have you checked with your good friend Magneto and his stooge, Toad?"
"Merde, Ororo, you sound bitter. I did what I had to do to survive. You'd have done the same. I will wait, and watch the crowds go by," he said, taking a long drag off his cigarette and smiling as falsely as she had moments before. "A gin and tonic, chere, s'il vous plait."
She turned away to make his drink, all the while cursing the thrill his voice still sent down her spine. He hadn't changed; she knew that. All that had changed was her perception of him. He was no longer her teammate and lover -- he was the man who'd sold them all out in return for his own survival. He was the same amoral con-man he'd always been, but she saw it clearly now, instead of allowing her hormones -- and she refused to believe it was more than hormones -- to overcome her good judgment.
Placing the drink before him wordlessly, she nodded to Jubilee and made her way to the office. She needed a break.
Logan was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the desk. He looked up from the paper he was reading. "What's that damn Cajun doing here, 'Ro?" he asked. Even after all this time, his keen senses amazed her. "Want me to kick his ass for you?"
She smiled, genuinely this time. Then she sobered. "He thinks you have the missing letters of transit."
"Why would he think that?"
"Do you?" she pressed.
"That would be telling," he replied, taking a long drag off the cigar he was smoking.
"You will use them this time?" she asked, smart enough not to press him to say it out loud.
"I won't. You and Jean might." He sighed. "Hank had nothing good to say, 'Ro. He risked a lot to come down here and examine her, but she's in bad shape, even if she won't admit it."
"She won't leave you."
"She will if I tell her to," he shot back, taking his feet off the desk and letting the chair hit the floor with a thump. "Keeping her here isn't doing her any good."
Ororo walked over and laid a hand on his arm. "It is not your fault, Logan. Any of it. She chose to do this to herself after Scott died--"
Logan interrupted her. "Come in, Jubilee."
"Jean just came in, Logan."
"Yeah, and?"
"She's upset. And Remy--"
He was out the door before she could finish the sentence.
"Ah, Logan," Remy began, turning from his conversation with the redheaded woman sitting next to him. "The stunning Ororo tol' me you weren't in. I guess you were mistaken, eh, chere?" Ororo sniffed and moved behind the bar.
The other patrons all watched, feeling the tension as two of the town's most powerful men faced off.
"Just got here, bub. What's it to ya?" Logan snapped.
"Remy have some friends comin' here tonight. I think you might be interested in 'em. Just wanted to give you a heads up, mon ami."
"Your friends are of no interest to us, Monsieur," Ororo said coldly.
"Oh, mon chere, you'd be surprised, I think," he replied.
"Dammit, Ororo, why haven't you given me a drink yet?" Jean demanded suddenly, leaning across the bar toward her oldest friend.
Ororo looked at Logan uncertainly. He put a hand on Jean's shoulder. "I think you've had enough today, Jeannie," he said gently. "Why don't you go home and --"
"Wait for you? I'll spend all night waiting, like I did last night and the night before. Where were you last night, Logan?" Jean cried.
"That's so long ago," he replied neutrally, "I don't remember."
"And tonight? Will you come home tonight?"
"I never make plans that far ahead, Jean."
She huffed in frustration and said, "I need a drink, 'Ro. Please?"
"She's had enough, Storm. Don't give her anything."
"I swear to God, Logan, you're not my mother. I can drink if I want to--"
"What about what Hank said, Jean? Think for once, dammit. I don't want you to die." Emotion crept into his voice, but Ororo wasn't quite sure what it was.
"Maybe I want to die, Logan. Have you ever thought about that? Maybe then I can stop seeing them -- hearing them in my head -- dying…" She broke down, sobbing against Logan's chest. He cradled her and stroked her hair softly.
"I know, Red. I know all about it." He turned to a waiter named Carl. "Take her home, Carl. Make sure she gets inside safely."
Fury replaced her tears. "Who do you think you are, Logan, pushing me around? I'm such a fool for thinking that you and I could ever have anything real, or good. That you could ever be like--" She didn't say the name. She didn't have to. Every move they made, every gesture, every word spoken or not, was haunted by Scott Summers' absence -- his, and the others.
Jean suddenly became docile. Carl took her gently by the arm and led her outside to the cabstand in front of the bar.
"Logan, how extravagant, throwing away women like that," Remy said grandiosely. "Someday, they may be scarce." Logan leaned on the bar and raised an eyebrow. He was more amused by Remy than angry with him. The man was a survivor, and Logan respected that, though little else, about the dapper thief. "Would you mind if Remy paid the good doctor a call later this evening, mon ami? Maybe catch her on the rebound?"
Logan's voice was pleasant, but there was an underlying hint of menace in his words. "Stay away from Jean, Remy. She don't need you around reminding her of what she's lost."
Remy sighed. "How did you end up here, Logan? Why not Canada, where it's free and you're home? Are you wanted there? Did you steal church funds? Fool around with the wrong woman? The romantic in me likes to think you killed a man and ran off with his wife."
Logan's knuckles itched and his fists clenched. Ororo and Jubilee watched the two men warily. They'd never fought together as X-Men, had no shared history at all before Tijuana, but he knew what Remy had done. And what he himself was guilty of. Logan forced himself to relax. ~I didn't kill Scott,~ he thought. ~I didn't.~ And then, the insidious voice inside his head said, ~If you'd been there, you could have saved him, saved them all.~ He ignored it.
"Something like that," he responded, pulling out a cigar and lighting it.
"And why Tijuana?"
"I came for the waters."
"Waters? What waters? This is practically the desert," Remy said.
"Yeah, so I found out," Logan replied shortly.
Remy chuckled, then turned serious. "Logan, there's going to be some excitement in here tonight. The Americans are going to make an arrest."
"What, again?" Logan snapped, annoyed.
"Oh, this is no petty thief, mon ami. We are here to catch a murderer," Remy said, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. He watched as Logan's eyes flitted involuntarily over to Toad's corner booth. "If you are thinkin' of warnin' him, don't. There's no way he can escape."
Logan shrugged. "I stick my neck out for no one."
"A wise policy," the Cajun responded. "You know," he continued, gesturing with his cigarette, "they could have made the arrest earlier, at La Café, but Remy wanted to entertain your patrons in between fights."
"Thanks," Logan said sarcastically.
Remy leaned in closer and rasped, "Just for your information, Logan, there will be a very important man joining us tonight. Cameron Hodge is in Mexico." Logan tensed at the name. The man was the Secretary of Defense, far more virulent in his hatred of mutants than Senator Kelly had ever been.
Of course, it was Mystique's impersonation of Kelly that had led to this whole mess, when Logan thought about it. Which he tried not to. But, after helping to arrange Magneto's escape from his plastic prison, she had been caught and summarily executed. The Mutant Registration Act had passed quickly then, and things had spun out of control, until mutants were being shepherded into internment camps for "re-education" and forced to flee the country or be hunted down like dogs.
Remy noted Logan's white knuckles as the Canadian said, "Really. And what's Hodge doing in town? I'm sure he's not here for the fights."
It was Remy's turn to shrug. "Perhaps not."
"My office. Now." Logan rose and Remy followed. Once inside, with the door shut, Logan said, "Stop playing games, pal. What the hell is going on?"
"Remy tryin' to do you a solid, Wolverine. We know what goes on in here -- that people are buyin' and sellin' exit visas all the time. But not you. Never you. That's why we haven't shut you down."
"I thought it was because we kicked back twenty percent on the take from the fights to you," Logan growled.
Remy inclined his head. "There is that. But you must know, someone has arrived here and we believe he will be attempting to get to Canada. He's willing to pay a fortune to anyone who will sell him an exit visa."
"So? What's his name?"
"Robert Drake."
Logan let out a long, low whistle. "Robert Drake?" He knew the name. Everyone knew the name.
Remy snorted. "That's the first time I've ever seen you so impressed," he said.
"Well, he's impressed half the world," Logan replied.
"Maybe so, but it's my job to make sure he doesn't impress the rest." Remy sighed. It wasn't going to be easy to see Drake again. They'd never been close, but they'd been teammates once -- had shared a room and an interest in the same girl. But those days were long gone. "Logan, Drake must stay here in Tijuana. He must never get to Canada."
"It'll be interesting to see how he does it," Logan mused.
"Does what?" Remy asked, confused.
"Escapes."
"I just told you --"
"Please, Gumbo. He managed to escape from an internment camp, make his way over to Europe, preach to the converted over there about Mutant Rights, all while being chased by the CIA." Logan chuckled. "The man is like the Lone Ranger and Superman all rolled into one."
"Maybe so," Remy said again, "but this is the end of the line."
"Ten thousand dollars says it isn't," Logan said immediately.
"Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack. My boys haven't been fightin' up to par the past few days and we've been losin' money. I'd like to make some of it back."
"Make it five. Remy not livin' large right now."
"Done," said Logan, lighting up a new cigar from the remains of the last.
"No matter how clever or slick m'boy is, he still needs papers. Or should I say, papers for two."
"Two?"
"He is traveling with a lady."
Logan snorted. "He'll take one set."
"Mais non. I know the lady. He's taken her with him every step of the way. He'll not leave her here." ~Not with you,~ he thought.
"No one is that romantic, Remy."
"Either way, it doesn't matter," the Cajun said firmly. "He will not get papers. He will not leave Mexico. You understand me?"
"Five by five, bub. Why do you think I'd bother helping Drake escape anyway? I've never gone out of my way to help anyone before," Logan said. ~Except Marie. Don't think about Marie. Just don't.~
"Because, mon cher," Remy replied, cranking up the accent, "Remy believes that underneath that scowl you be a romantic at heart."
"Get out," Logan growled. "Now."
3.
Remy opened the door. Ororo stood there, a concerned look on her face. "Logan--" she said, but Remy cut her off.
"Hodge is here," he muttered, sliding his sunglasses on to hide his mutant eyes.
"I've put him close to the cage, Logan. What is he doing here?" Ororo asked. She was obviously spooked.
Logan laid a hand on her arm. "Go back to the bar, 'Ro," he said grimly. "I'll handle this."
He and LeBeau walked over to the blonde man sitting at the best table in the house. "Monsieur Hodge, here is the owner of this fine establishment. His name is Logan."
"How do you do, Mr. Logan?" Hodge asked perfunctorily. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Unofficially, of course."
"Make it official. I don't care." He pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it, lighting a cigar.
"What is your nationality?" Hodge began, his voice flat and precise -- the Midwest broadcasting accent.
"I'm a drunk."
"Which makes Logan a citizen of the world," Remy said heartily.
"I understand you were in San Francisco before coming to Tijuana, Mr. Logan."
Logan stiffened but said, "It ain't a secret, bub."
"No, it's not. We have a dossier on you, Mr. Logan. You once fought with the X-Men, is that so?"
"We had a common enemy, so it seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And yet, you managed to escape the punishment meted out to your fellow teammates," Hodge said curiously.
"They weren't my teammates," Logan replied, his eyes going to Storm and Jubilee behind the bar. "Just acquaintances." He was far closer now with the surviving X-Men than he'd been back then.
"We know what you were doing in San Francisco, Mr. Logan. But don't worry, we're not here to arrest you," Hodge continued, as he slid a folder across the table, and Logan rifled through it.
"Are my eyes really hazel?" he asked, his flippant tone masking the tension and his readiness to fight at the slightest provocation. He pushed the folder back toward Hodge and his hands moved under the table; the claws slid out silently and gouged holes in the wood.
The sounds of the crowd cheering on the fight seemed very far away at the moment.
"Mr. Logan, my point is this. An enemy of the United States," and it was amazing how every politician managed to sound like they were from the Bible Belt when they said that, "is here in Tijuana. A man wanted for escaping prison," ~For being a mutant,~ Logan thought, "for plotting to overthrow the government," Hodge was in full-on spin-doctoring mode now, "is here in Mexico, and we've recently signed a treaty with the Mexican government outlining our rights when it comes to hunting down mutants and criminals."
"Not much difference between 'em, eh?" Logan said, keeping his temper in check. He had people -- Ororo, Jubilee, Jean -- depending on him now. He couldn't let them down the way he had Marie. He chose not to think about how she had let him down, broken every fucking promise that she'd made. He took a deep breath. He'd learned some restraint over the past few years. He'd had to, to survive. There were now six, inch-deep grooves on the underside of the table. "I don't give a flying fuck about Robert Drake, Hodge. My only interest is in making money. Reformers are bad for business."
Hodge smiled, and it was ugly to see. "We understand each other, then, Mr. Logan." He raised his glass. "Have a drink with me."
"I'm sorry," Logan said. "I never drink with the customers." He moved to get up then but Hodge stopped him.
"Wait. The show is about to begin. Go ahead, LeBeau." Remy nodded at someone at the bar.
Suddenly, a group of four seemingly drunk soldiers straightened up and moved toward Toad's booth.
One of them said, "Mortimer Toynbee, you are under arrest for the murders of Corporal Lawrence Hepplewhite and Corporal David Martin of the United States Army, 23rd Airborne Division." Two men reached out for Toad's arms, but they hadn't anticipated his fighting skill or his tongue, which lashed out and knocked two of the soldiers down as he sped up the wall. Using his tongue, he grabbed a pistol from one of the downed men and scampered towards the exit, turning and firing off rounds at random, causing everyone in the joint to duck for cover.
The two soldiers who still stood gave chase, and one of them finally remembered he was armed. He drew a bead on the fleeing Toad and shot three times. Toad spasmed and fell to the floor. The two fallen soldiers rose, one barking orders into a headset, and more entered the bar, picked up Toad's limp body, and marched out.
"Excellent," Hodge murmured. Remy smiled nervously. They followed the soldiers out into the night.
People were getting up and dusting themselves off, muttering anxiously.
Logan and Ororo exchanged a look. He stood and announced, "I'm sorry there was a -- disturbance, but it's all over now. Everything is all right. Just sit down and have a drink." He could smell the fear rolling off them in waves, and felt the frustration rise at his inability to do anything about Hodge and his kind.
He stalked over to the cage, spoke briefly to the emcee, and stripped his shirt off. He needed a fight, and since there was no way he could take on the United States Army, he was going to beat the shit out of whatever poor fool had signed up for the next round in the cage.
Angel, the emcee, announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you, the Wolverine! Undefeated king of the cage! And your host here at Sam's." He repeated the message in his native Spanish, and the crowd cheered madly.
When he and Ororo had first arrived in Tijuana, after fleeing San Francisco, he'd made enough money cage-fighting to support them both. They had a brief liaison, more about comfort than sex, and settled into a friendship better than anything he'd ever known, except for that month in San Francisco.
After almost a year in Mexico, he'd won the damn bar in a bet, beating the tar out of eighteen challengers in a row one night. And then Jubilee had contacted Ororo -- Jean was in trouble and needed their help. He hadn't thought he'd be able to face her after his failure to get back to Westchester in time to help defend the mansion, but it had been easy.
She wasn't the Jean Grey-Summers he remembered. She was blowsy and drunk, careless of her appearance and most everything else. She had been with Xavier when he died, but her mind had been with Scott. As she'd held the hand of her mentor and felt him slip into death, she'd been linked to her husband and felt him die, as well.
Her nightmares were now a match for his, and it was only a matter of days before they fell on each other, ravenous for someone to ease the pain. But grief-driven sex wasn't enough for either of them, and Jean continued to drink heavily, and indulge in other types of recreational drugs as well. They were a dime a dozen in TJ and nobody messed with Logan's women. They'd stopped sleeping together regularly after a few months, but Jean clung to him with a persistence he sometimes found amazing. He knew it wasn't love, though he'd developed a fondness for her, especially on her sober days.
And then there was Jubilee. She'd come south with Jean and stayed, working as a bartender for him. He knew she was working with the mutant underground -- she and 'Ro were both involved -- but he chose to turn a blind eye. He'd cared once, gotten involved once, and had his heart ripped out and stomped on like so many used cigarettes. He would never turn them in -- would stand with them to hell and back -- but he was done going out on a limb for strangers. All it ever got you was pain, and he already had enough of that, thanks.
So, he stood in the cage, feral and angry, awaiting his opponent.
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