Categories > Comics > X-Men > Cinnamon and Smoke

Chapter 5

by foozi100 0 reviews

Victor does a little braking and entering. could he finally locate what he needs to solve this disaster?

Category: X-Men - Rating: R - Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Humor - Characters: Sabretooth - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2007-04-08 - Updated: 2007-04-09 - 2271 words

When I wake up, there's light comin' through some crudded over window, an' I learn that dawn has done come without lettin' me know. How rude. It takes me a bit to get to my feet, with the slidin' in the muck I've been snoozin' in fer the last few hours or so. I clean off as best I can, an' take ahold o' the situation, tryin' not to let this whole mess get me down. After givin' up the search for a missin' shoe, I go an' squat down on the steps I fell off of earlier, as to get me somewhat outta the sludge down there. I can smell it, an' it ain't nice. Now I know someone died down here. Ugh. It's enough to put off my stomach, if I had eaten anythin' lately.

What do I know? I hate to admit it, but not that much. I'm totin' a chip that can do all kinds o' wonderful thing, but I can't use it without gettin' tracked. My angel, as it were, is dead in her own bed, an' I'm drivin' her right nice car. There's someone whackin' off old pros, instead o' payin' retirement, an' I don't even remember who was doin' the hirin'. An' last but not least, there's that naggin' scent I keep catchin', but I can't seem to pin down long enough to track. I've been knocked out, knocked around, drugged, shot, stabbed, an' I've got mud in my hair. This stinks, in more ways than one. Who out there knows me well enough to teach or train these goons on how to take me down? Can't be the runt, 'cause that just sets him up too. Deathstrike knows better. Mystique, I ain't seen in a whild, I think. So who?

After headin' back up the stairs, an' gettin' to a public restroom, I clean the gunk offa me an' try to think, but it's like plowin' through clay. I'm comin' apart at the seams, an' I know it. Birdie. If she wasn't dead, I'd kill her fer dyin' on me. So, on top o' all o' this, I'd better hurry up, or someone's gonna get lucky real soon an' have a throw rug to parade over. An; I don't look good as an addition to someone's interior decoratin' projects. What does that leave me then. I look into the mirror, an' see the red edges o' my eyes. I'm needin' some good sleep, but that might just be a dream at this moment. I don't look rugged, I look ragged. Time to regroup.

It takes a bit to remember where i parked the damn car, but I get there an' haul tail outta the neighborhood. Lucky no one jacked the tires. I rummage in the glove compartment, an' come up with a few credit cards. Good, easy money, the best kind. The cards with the cash I found earlier covers expenses. No respectful hotel takes ya without luggage an' money, so I'm in luck. An' all the high an' mighty hotels have internet connection. Three hours, c couple thousand dollars an' some serious headaches later, I've got luggage, clothes, a laptop an' all them neat bathroom toys. Now i remember why, in my twenties I figger, I wanted to make it my life's work to personally firebomb every department store an' mall in North America. Though it was a nice suprise to find them cards had my name on them. That gal was twisted, but she was good at this plannin' thing.

I know, the idea o' findin' a nice high end hotel in Detroit sounds like a long shot, but there are some. An' a Vic Creed, esq., is now habitatin' there. They get the message about leavin' me alone after a long business trip, an' that I'm gonna need that internet connection later, but I've got more important things to do right now that figger out what I'm gonna do. Like room service. Three steaks, a plate o' french fries, some green apples, a baked chicken, an' a good half dozen o' them shrimp cocktail thing, up to the room of mister Creed, thank you very much. Leave the bell boy a good tip, an' settle down with food an' my newly purchased laptop. One thing I miss about the old days. All o' this instant communication junk is fer the birds. Splice sent me the data on the chip, like I could read it, but he was nice enough to put some o' it in english fer yers truly. After perusin' all this psychobabble, I figger out that the chip was built somewhere out west, by one o' the lines o' code or such. Don't these people believe in them stickers that have the 'made in' on them?

After two days o' patchin' up, restin' an' swimmin' laps in the heated pool, all o' this cushy livin's drivin' me up the nearest wall. So I check out, an' hit the road. The hotel people invite me to come back, sayin' that I'm the model guest. Hell, I was too tired to cause a ruckus, an' the room service guy was never late. West, then. Now where do they build all o' that software an' hardware out there? Even I know the answer to that one. California, Silicon Valley. At least it gets me outta Detroit, an' none too soon. My handiwork in the alley was found, an' the reporter people are startin' to guess who is doin' it, an' connectin' it to the New York killings an' the murders across the eastern country. Time to vanish.

I get the contents o' one o' my post ofice boxes Fed Ex-ed to me, an' now I'm Jeremy Smith. Very blendable, just the nice guy wirh lots o' monet goin' on a trip all the way from Atlanta. Never even used this one before, so I'm hopin' it'll throw off the fan club goons long enough to figger out who owns this chip an' who the employer o' the dead co-workers is. Huntin' people, somethin' I'm the best at. This won't take much longer now. Followin' the code trace from the chip, I locate which company that had a hand in buildin' the damn thing. So later, I pick up some stuff you don't find in a department store, an' get ready fer some old fashioned breaken' an' enterin'. I lost my colors way back before the club, so tonight's gonna be all black. An; anynoe who says that mercs are a dyin' breed never crawled through the underside o' society. It takes only two hours to get everythin', an' these people don't try to pawn off the latest fragrance in the bargain. All the tools a good bad guy needs to handle some illegal tresspassin'. If I didn't miss it so much, I'd be mad about gettin' back in the business.

It's about three in the morn, about the time when even the night security is noddin' off, an' the moon is covered by clouds. Must be my lucky night tonight. I know most o' them professional thieves go all in fer that plannin' ahead stuff, but if my senses don't catch it, all the studyin' in the world won't help me. I'm instinctual, not a book worm after all. i wait until the sprinklers shut off nearby, an' ghost across the grass, not even disturbin' the breeze. Drop around back, listenin' for the hum o' the motors in surveillance cameras in the silence o' the night. There's a couple, but their view is compromized by the darkness. No infrared on them, no motion detectors. Sloppy setup, I'll leave them a note tellin' them so. Poppin' the lock on an employee entrance takes a moment, then ya just slide one o' them magnetic strips in the gap to keep the internal alarms fooled. A little bit o' shoulder on the frame, an' in I go.

They've got the hall lights set low fer cost I'm figgerin', an' I act like a shadow down the hall to the set o' cubes people work in. I hate cubes, what's the point o' havin' walls, but no ceilin' or door? Some moron always leaves a system on, an' I'm bankin' on that. Lucky me, the rule still stands, an' all I gotta go through is a screen-saver code. So I pull a snapshot of this sucker's ladyfriend off the bulletin board, an' right there on the back is her name. These people should really wise up someday, this is gettin' too easy. Crackin' vault combos was never this smooth. A few point an' clicks, an' I've got the entire layout, as well as this sap's list o' passwords. I need the record room now. Puttin' the picture back, and returnin' the screen to where i found it, I head back down the hall, an' nearly scare myself outta my own skin when the A/C kicks on. Smooth, Victor.

The record room is right down the corridor, an' up two flights o' stairs. Memo to would-be thieves. Never take the elevators. It's a great way to tell everyone an' their kid brother that someone's in the building that shouldn't be there. I hot-foot it up the flights, an' ease the door open. Some places still go fer those kock behind ya doors, but it tends to annoy night security, so they're goin' outta style. Just in case, I strap some duct tape over the latch. Just leave yourself a little tab to pull it loose when you leave, an' no one is the wiser. I take a moment to check around me. Still no sound or scent o' guards. Apparently, all the cameras are on the outside. Guess they never figgered on someone gettin' in. Into the record room I go, an use the codes from the downstairs machine, settin' this guy up to get fired fer industrial espionage. Maybe he'll be smarter fer the loss. Now comes the tricky part. I don't even know the name o' the chip I'm lookin' fer, so I do it the old fashioned way. Pluggin' in the Zip drive I picked up durin' my shoppin' trip, I just start downloadin' everythin' that looks important. Another memo. Never use the printer. I don't care how quiet they are these days, in a silent building the sound stands out.

It take a little longer than i woulda liked, an' I've got a whole shoebox o' disks, but the deed is done. Unpluggin' the Zip an' loggin' out, I head to the hall an' the stairs. Pull the tape away, head down the stairs. Out into the corridor I used earlier, I finally catch it. A whiff o' coffee an' glazed donuts. An' Marlboros. Someone's smokin' in the building against regulations. Guards. Then the footsteps come into hearin', an' they're a bit close fer comfort. i dunk into the nearest door, an' ease it shut behind me, makin' sure it don's slam or squeak. I'm standin; in the middle o' some small waitin' room or somethin', across from the restrooms.Not the wisest place to me, so I duck into the ladies room. Just in time, 'cause I hear the door I just went through open an' close. Footsteps on the carpet, headin' this way. I move to the back o' the restroom, an' pull another toy outta it's pocket, just in case.

Then the door opens. Lucky me, livin' in a progressive society. It's a lady guard. "Hey! What are you doing in here?!?" She reaches to both her gun an' her walkie talkie link on her shirt front, but I'm too fast fer her eyes to catch on. Right in the chest she catches it, an' my new toy, one o' them volt zappers that can knock down a rabid rhino, gets her. She's out to lunch before she hits the floor, an' any other night, she'd spend the next twenty years feedin' the worms, but killin' is tracable, while a thief is half-heartedly persued. Just fer giggles though, I flush her bullets before I head out. Her motion to her walkie talkie tells me there's more than her in the building, an' I'm not in the mood right now. I do my best impression of a solid ghost, an' get back to the door I entered this place at. Close it behind me, pull the magnet strip so they can't trace it, an' over the grass I go, the only drawback is the speinklers kickin' back on. No biggis, got the disks an' Zip wrapped in plastic.

To the edge o' the property, strip outta the black jumpsuit an' stow it behind the seat, revealin' street clothes underneath, an' I'm so gone that even Elvis would be easier to find. Back to my nice room I'm rentin', an' I dump the jumpsuit along the way in a dumpster. No reason to tote incriminatin' evidence around, now is there? It's all replacable. Room serive, I want a bottle o' yer finest wine, why yes I'm celebratin'. Me, the bottle, the laptop and the Zips go to bed, an' I get to spend the next eight hours crunchin' through reams o' junk, lookin' fer I don't know what in amongst all this garbage. But after a few tense IMs to Splice, I get the name of the yahoo who wanted this chip built. Finally, somethin's comin' together fer me. I call the front desk, an' let them know I'll be checkin' out in the mornin'. I've got more drivin' to do. Seattle. The home o' cinnamon an' smoke I'm hopin'.
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