Chapter 13

Apartment 35B. Little more than a heavy wooden door at the end of a cramped hallway. The doorbell, lit by a small orange bulb, didn't work half the time, so it was better to knock.

"Here to see the Danvers woman?" The greasy looking man took another drag on his cigarette as he leaned against the hallway wall. He let his eyes crawl up Rogue's body as she stood in front of Carol's door, hesitating. "First visitor I've seen in ages. Blondie's a piece of work, but moody as all hell. Say, you aren't so bad yourself. What say you and I..."

As he landed on a floor with a thud, Rogue vaguely wished she'd hit him harder, but she hadn't wanted to risk permanent damage. It probably would have been easier to just absorb him, but he wasn't the type she wanted wandering around her head.

I always hated him, Carol mused. With all the times I've decked him, I'm surprised he was never permanently damaged. Not sure there was anything up there to damage. So why the hell haven't you knocked yet?

"Give me a second, Carol. This ain't easy." She was surprised at how nervous she was to be standing in front of the door of a woman who probably hated her more than anything.

Waiting isn't going to make it easier. Besides, you aren't the only one who's nervous.

Before she'd even knocked, the door cracked open. "I heard you walk up a couple minutes ago," Carol's voiced responded. The familiar blonde pressed her face in the crack and gave Rogue a seething glance. "What do you want?"

"Can ah come in?"

"Only if you promise not to touch anything." Carol barked a dry laugh. "Let me take off the chain." The door shut for a moment, and Rogue could hear the sound of latches sliding back. When the door opened again, she got her first good look at Carol.

She barely recognized the sock-footed woman in front of her, wearing little more than a baggy t-shirt and boxers. Carol's hair, once a lovely shade of golden-blonde, was pulled back, exposing the dark roots she hadn't bothered to touch up. Her pale pink lips appeared dry and chapped against her bare face.

"I wasn't expecting visitors," Carol explained, tapping her long fingernails against the doorframe. "I was watching TV. Come in, I was about to make a sandwich."

The apartment was smaller than Rogue had expected, with baby blue walls and white linen curtains that were drawn tightly shut. A few overgrown ferns were haphazardly placed around the apartment in decorative pots that Rogue's mother would have liked.

"You want something to drink?" Carol asked, heading towards the kitchen. Rogue shook her head no, and Carol just shrugged. "Okay."

The Mississippi-bred teenager sat on the old couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs nervously. From her seat, she could hear Carol wandering around the kitchen, muttering incoherent words to herself. A moment later, the one-time superhero wandered back in, carrying a ham sandwich in one hand.

"So what brings you here, Dixie?" she asked, plopping down in a blue recliner. "Coming to get a gawk at your old nemesis?"

"You're not mah nemesis," Rogue said lamely. Inwardly, she wished her mental version of Carol would come out to say something, but the voice was strangely silent.

Carol didn't respond, only picking at her sandwich. "Why'd I make ham? I don't want ham." The blonde woman kept her eyes averted from Rogue, focusing them everywhere except on her guest.

"Ah came to say I was sorry," Rogue. "Ah didn't mean to strip you of your powers."

"I know," Carol said, shrugging. "But you did, and that's not changing."

"Ah would give anything if someone took mah powers from me," Rogue said.

"Yeah, well I'm not you, sweetheart." Carol brought her bright blue eyes back up to meet the former X-Man's. "Not everyone likes having what's rightfully theirs stolen from them."

This time, it was Rogue's turn not to respond. Carol observed her for a moment, as if analyzing the situation. "Why'd you come here, anyway?"

"It wasn't really mah idea..."

"I wanted to come, didn't I?" Carol asked. Rogue nodded, and the government agent sighed. "Yeah. I figured it was a matter of time before that happened. So what does she think?"

"Ah don't know. She's being quiet. For once."

Carol snorted. "Go figure." There was an awkward pause, then she continued. "I already know what she's thinking. I've been thinking the same thing for months now."

"And what's that?"

"That I hate you for what you did to me." Her blue eyes stared at the teenager, unblinking. "That you've made me a ghost of the woman I once was. That you took my life from me, and I will never get that back."

"Ah'm sorry," Rogue said, almost whispering.

"There's no use saying sorry. It doesn't do either of us any good. I know you're not an entirely bad kid, and I don't think you meant to strip my powers. But that doesn't mean I have to like you"

"Ah can live with that, ah guess."

"Well," Carol said, leaning back in her chair. "I'm glad one of us can."

-----

The New York offices of Worthington Incorporated, perhaps the world's largest investment firm, were an imposing sight on the busy road known as Wall Street. From his office on the top floor of the enormous steel and glass structure, CEO and company President Warren Worthington watched the bustle of the most famous financial district in the world. His serene and unwavering vigil from the windows of his ostentatious office was a common ritual for the young entrepreneur.

Born into wealth, the blonde playboy spent his early years at his family's estate, where he was an avid fencer and horseback rider. At the tender age of thirteen, he was profiled in Seventeen magazine, where his stunning good looks and sizeable trust fund established him a place in the hearts of adolescent girls everywhere.

By fifteen, the normally gregarious and prominent teenager virtually dropped off society's map. The charming heir, once known as something up a party boy, was suddenly sullen and anti-social, refusing to leave his family estate.

When he was suddenly sent off to what his father referred to as an "elite boarding school," his one-time friends and neighbors began to whisper that the richest boy in America had actually been institutionalized. Rumors about everything from drugs to schizophrenia ran rampant, though the family continued to maintain that he was enrolled at a nameless boarding school.

In fact, Warren had gone off to an elite school, though not the kind his father had suggested to the public. Rather he was sent off to become one of the first students at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters.

Warren's mutancy, which had landed him in the institute, manifested itself in the form of an enormous set of wings. These white feathered wings, combined with his Adonis-like looks, quickly earned him a nickname among the awestruck girls of the institute - Angel.

In fact, this "Angel," behaved as anything but what his divine nickname suggested. From the onset, his bratty and self-absorbed nature kept most of the student body at bay. Unlike the other students, who were slowly growing to accept their unexpected gifts, Warren rejected his new place in the mutant community, declaring he would have "those things" removed the second he could. He sneered at most of the other students, especially those whose mutations were physically apparent. The young Scott Summers was a frequent victim of Warren's contempt, as was the teenage Lorna Dane, who avenged herself by magnetizing or disfiguring every metal item of Warren's that she could get her hands on. She'd also single-handedly ruined three of his computers by "accidentally" polarizing the very sensitive hard drives.

The only student who never once became the object of his contempt was the sixteen year-old Jean Grey, sent to cope with her burgeoning telekinesis and telepathy. In fact, Warren was almost fond of the beautiful red-head, who was well-liked among the small community of students.

It was Jean who finally broke Warren out of his shell when, much to Scott's annoyance, she unexpectedly asked him to accompany her to the first school dance held at the fledgling school. Warren accepted her invitation, marking the beginning of their adolescent romance.

While dating Jean, Warren began to relax and open up to his classmates, even reconciling with the stubborn Lorna, who'd once declared him to be her arch-enemy. The only student he never seemed to get along with was Scott.

Everyone knew about Scott's long-time crush on his stunning best friend. Even Jean, who'd never done anything but insist that there was nothing but friendship between them, seemed to be aware of his feelings for her. Scott and Warren quarreled almost non-stop, only restraining themselves in the presence of the object of their mutual admiration.

Upon graduation, Warren was sent off to Stanford, his father's alma mater, while Jean pursued a degree at NYU, which Scott also attended. Despite Warren's frequent requests for her to transfer, Jean was firm in her desire to stay on the East Coast. Eventually, the couple agreed to separate, at least until they both finished their education.

By the time Warren had obtained his graduate degree in business and returned to New York, intent on rekindling his and Jean's romance, the beautiful red-headed med student had moved on, and into a relationship with her long-time best friend, Scott. Though Jean asked him to return to the Institute as a teacher, as she intended to do, Warren refused, instead moving into New York City to take over his father's business.

As Warren watched the city move, he felt his wings, bound and hidden under his bulky coat, begin to twitch, itching to be unbound and expanded. He resisted the urge, knowing the reaction it might stir in his fellow executives, who already glanced curiously at his unusually broad shoulders and back. He knew when he returned to his Manhattan penthouse, he would need to stretch the wings, which grew very sore after hours of being tightly bound to his back. Though with practice, he'd managed to make his wings lie virtually flat against his back, it still strained him to maintain the illusion on a daily basis.

One of the few people privileged with ever seeing his wings was Warren's current girlfriend, Elizabeth Braddock. Warren had met the flirtatious Elizabeth - Betsy to her friends - at a social mixer a couple years back. Among the largely clean-cut crowd, her violet-tinted hair was something of a scandal, pegging her as a creature all of her own. Despite her unconventional dress and appearance, her fortune landed her a spot among society's elite.

The two began to see each other, finally revealing their shared genetic trait - the X factor gene. Betsy, a native of England, was a telepath of extraordinary talents. Unlike Warren, she did not attend a school for mutants, instead developing her gifts at home with her brother, also a mutant.

To most, Betsy was just another spoiled rich girl with a reputation of being somewhat stand-offish. Warren, however, saw a different side to her, one she often kept hidden. She was far more sensitive and caring than most people realized. True, she could be a handful at times, but that was only one facet of her personality.

Over the years, Warren had settled into his new role as an international businessman, virtually forgetting his years at the Academy. He had visited only once, last year for the Professor's birthday. It was on that trip that he found out about Jean and Scott's engagement.

The news shocked him more than he'd expected. Though he'd been over Jean for quite some time now, seeing her in a relationship with someone else was odd for him. Betsy, who'd accompanied him on the trip, immediately picked up on the effect Jean and Scott's relationship had on him. She was cold, although not completely unkind to Jean as a result. It wasn't exactly jealousy, per se, but more of just a simple aversion. Even if Jean hadn't been Warren's old girlfriend, her personality was just so different from Betsy's that the beautiful British woman had virtually nothing in common. She almost seemed to view the red-headed doctor as being a bit common, and had teased Warren for dating two women so entirely different. "At least I know you aren't dating me because I remind you of your ex," she'd joked.

Warren hadn't expected to return to the Academy for a while, which was why he was so shocked when he found out the Professor wanted to see him. "I can't imagine what he wants," he'd commented to Betsy.

When he returned the phone call, Ororo Munroe, who he'd only met a handful of times, was the person who answered. She was only able to tell him a scarce amount of information, as the Professor wanted to meet Warren in person to discuss the rest. What she did tell him revolved around a woman named Emma Frost who was a member of a social club that Warren also had membership to - The New York branch of the Hellfire Club.

The Hellfire Club, originating in England a couple centuries ago, was formed as a club where society's elite could gather. In it's early years, the Club was known for some unscrupulous and socially-unacceptable practices. The power and wealth of the members, however, had kept the society virtually scandal-free. In recent years, the Club had dwindled to little more than a glorified country club, hosting 6 major balls each year, in addition to smaller functions. The wilder parties of years past were tame now, consisting mostly of older rich people who gathered to drink too much champagne and talk business. Neither Betsy nor Warren particularly cared for the functions, but attended nonetheless, in order to keep up appearances.

What the Hellfire Club had to do with the X-Men, Warren couldn't fathom. As far as he was aware, the Club's interests extended no further than parties and money. Mutancy was not exactly high on the list. Regardless, Warren was scheduled to leave that afternoon in order to meet the Professor and discuss what the X-Men viewed as a "potential ally or threat."

Betsy was not pleased that they had to rearrange their plans in order to visit the Institute. Spending a weekend at a school for mutants was not exactly high on her priority list. "There won't be a single interesting person there, save you," she complained.

Regardless, he and Betsy were scheduled to leave for the Institute tonight, in order to find out why Warren's presence was required. He had to admit that he was somewhat elated at the possibility of seeing his old friends again. The thought of going on a mission was exciting in comparison to the rest of his life, which was virtually run-of-the-mill.

"Mr. Worthington, you have a meeting in ten minutes." Warren sighed, snapping out of his thought. His daydreams would just have to wait.

-----

Jono sat in his room at the Massachusetts Academy, blasting Pink Floyd's "The Wall," one of his favorite albums. On the days when he was in a particularly down mood, he liked to play the album, and just listen to the music.

Once upon a time, it'd been his dream to head up his own band. Back before his powers had manifested, he often played his guitar and sang for his old mates back in England.

His former girlfriend, Gayle, had been the one who'd introduced him to Pink Floyd, a band she thought the aspiring musician would appreciate. Sometimes, she came over to his house to listen to him play his guitar along with the music, softly singing the words to the song.

He hadn't seen Gayle since his powers manifested.

He was with her the day they came. The two of them were in his room, spending some quality time together. He first felt it as a slight burning in his chest, which he wrote off as gas or heartburn. The pain increased, however, finally manifesting in gigantic flames which flew from the brand new, gaping hole in his chest.

Gayle lost her legs in the accident.

He wanted to visit her in the hospital, but her parents told him in no uncertain terms, that he wasn't welcome. She'd barely survived the blast, and they didn't want to take the chance that the incident would repeat itself. Jono also had a suspicion that they were aware of what he and Gail had been doing when the powers manifested, which was a conversation he didn't particularly want to have with them.

Soon after, Jono was recruited by Emma, and sent off to America, where his parents hoped he would be able to escape what happened.

He still listened to the album sometimes, and sat there wondering what Gayle was up to, and if she was angry with him. He'd half hoped she would track down his address and write him, but so far, no word had come.

There was a knock at his door, and Jono turned down his music. "Who is it?" he psionically asked, projecting his voice into the mind of the person at the door.

The door opened and Emma Frost walked in. "Evenin', Miss Frost," he greeted her. "What can I do for yer?"

"Jono, I've come to ask a very special favor of you." She smiled pleasantly, baring a set of perfectly aligned white teeth. "How would you feel about participating in an exchange program of sorts?"

"I don't follow," he told the headmistress, cocking an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Tessa, Sebastian's assistant, is going to be helping out for a bit at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters, which, as you are aware, is a school Sebastian and I have been in contact with recently. The entire student population is entirely composed of mutants. Originally, we were just going to send Tessa over, but we the Institute expressed interest in meeting a few of our own 'gifted' students."

"I'm flattered, Miss Frost, but why me, out of all yer students?"

She smiled again. "Don't sell yourself short, Jono. We brought you to the school for a reason, you know. You have unimaginable potential."

Something about the way she said the word "potential," hit Jono wrong, but he said nothing. "Why not," he responded. "Might be nice to get out of here for a bit. Any of the other students going?"

"At this time, we're just going to send you," Emma replied, "Though some of the other students may make visits at some point in the future." She clasped her hands. "It's settled, then. Begin packing your things immediately, Jonothan. You're going to Xavier's."

-----

Rogue never felt so relived as the moment she left Carol's apartment. The whole visit was a virtual disaster. She'd come, hoping to reconcile with the woman she'd destroyed, only to realize she would never get that reconciliation.

'Ah suppose ya hate me too,' Rogue thought to the inner Carol, who'd been silent for the entire visit. 'Ah also suppose ya wanna tell me that.'

You don't know what I want to do, the voice snapped back.

'Then why don't ya enlighten me. Ah'm just dyin' to know.'

Oh, I'm sorry this trip was so tough on *you.* I bet *you're* just so hurt.

They both shut up for a brief moment, dropping the internal argument. Slumping against the wall of the apartment building, Rogue buried her head in her arms, feeling warm tears slide down her cheeks.

For the record, I don't hate you. Not anymore at least.

'Hah. Tell that to the real Carol.'

That woman is a shadow of the person I once was. There's only one real Carol around here, and it's not her. Not by a long shot.

'Ah still feel awful.'

Trust me, she feels worse. That's why she was so rough on you. Carol was silent. She... and I... are very aware that you weren't totally at fault for what happened. And that's why she can't forgive you. Because she hasn't forgiven herself for pushing you the way she did. For letting things get that far out of control. She should have known better. That's why she's upset.

'It was mah fault, Carol. Ah shouldn't have attacked ya.'

Maybe. Maybe I was at fault too. What happened then isn't half as important as what happens next. That woman in there will spend the rest of her life wallowing in self-pity. I don't intend to let that happen to me. It's not much of a life in here, I'll admit, but it's the only one I've got. And if you'll let me, I intend to make the best of it.

'Ya know, Carol, ah think we might just be able to work something out.'

-----

It'd been a while since Lorna had talked with Scott on a one-on-one basis. The two mutants, who at one time were good friends, had become estranged over the years, with Malice finally putting the last strain in their friendship.

The two teachers now sat in a small ice cream, a few miles from the Institute. A few of the students, including Jubilee and Paige, had been begging for a trip for days now, so Lorna and Scott agreed to take a handful of them. The trip also gave Lorna the perfect opportunity to discuss her situation with her old friend.

"I don't know if I can do it anymore, Scott," she said, twisting the ends of her ponytail. Her green mane was drawing more than a few looks from some of the other parlor patrons, who probably assumed she was some punk from the city. "I mean, with everything that's happened, I just can't handle any kind of stress in my life."

"Listen, Lorna, I understand what you're going through." Scott adjusted his glasses, which held back the energy bursts that constantly flowed out of his eyes. "Getting through everything must be tough for you, but I don't know if alienating yourself is the right thing to do."

"Remy seems to think some time away might do me good."

Scott snorted. "Remy also thinks picking the locks on Wolverine's door is a good idea. He's not exactly the best person to get lifestyle advice from."

"I think there's more to him than a flirtatious thief," she responded, poking at her ice cream with her spoon. "Ororo seems to agree."

Scott shook his head. "Jean's a bit fond of him too, despite the fact that she once caught him breaking into her office. Claimed he wanted to borrow one of her pens. I think he's trouble, but so long as he's not hurting the students, I don't have a problem with him staying." He was silent for a moment. "If you really want some time away, I might be able to arrange something. I have a brother, Alex, who has a business in the city. Maybe I can work something out where you can get a job with him or something. Get you out of the school for a while."

"I didn't know you had a brother, Scott," she said, her eyes widening a bit in curiosity.

"Alex and I aren't the closest," Scott said, his voice lowering a bit. Lorna could see his jaw tighten somewhat, as he picked up another scoop of vanilla ice cream. "I dunno," Scott continued, "maybe he might need some help."

"What does he do?"

"He has an electronics business. Selling and repairing. He's done a lot of work for the Professor on some of the gadgets around here. He's great at making and fixing things, but he has no mind for the business part of his work. I'd imagine he could use some help with paperwork and accounting."

"Why aren't you guys closer?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. He was silent for a minute before talking.

"After my parents died, he thought I should work on the family business with him. I was going to run the business, while he made stuff. He didn't like the fact that I wanted to stay on with the school and teach. He's a mutant too, and a powerful one. He never wanted to go to the Institute though. Seemed to hate the idea, really. My brother is a complicated person. It's a pity, though. His powers are pretty strong. He probably could have used the help the Professor could have given him, growing up."

"I might just take you up on that offer," Lorna said, smiling. "Thanks Scott, I appreciate it."

"Anytime."

-----

"Come in, Jean. I was expecting you."

The Professor gestured to the redheaded telekinetic, who shut the door to his office before taking a seat. "Professor," she started, "I've come to talk about..."

"...about what's going on with your powers." He smiled. "I know."

She grinned, relaxing a bit. "Yeah. I know you do."

The Professor leaned back in his wheelchair. "Why don't you start by telling me what's going on."

She sighed. "I don't really know. It was back in the caves when it happened. One moment, my powers were faltering, and the next, they grew five, ten, a hundred times as strong as they were. It was like my prayers for help were answered."

"Indeed," the Professor said, looking at her curiously. "But who answered them, Jean?"

She was quiet, looking off into space. The Professor leaned forward, opening his mouth to ask again.

"It calls itself the Phoenix." She almost whispered the words. "It's not human, at least I don't think. It's stronger than any mutant I've ever met."

"Describe it's control over you, Jean."

"It's not controlling me." Her sharp reply startled the Professor, who was not accustomed to Jean snapping at anyone, much less him. "Sorry," she said, her sharp look disappearing. "It's not controlling me. It's more like it's... supplementing me. It's giving me it's power."

"Yes, I have noticed the increase in your power." He locked his fingers together and was quiet for a moment. "But, I have to ask... what is it getting in return?"

She was quiet again. "I haven't figured that out. It's mostly quiet, like it just wants to rest. But, it's like it's always watching me. It feels what I feel, it knows my thoughts, my every emotion. It seems to almost feed off them."

"Are you sure this presence is entirely benign?"

"I don't think it's like Malice, if that's what you mean. I don't sense any malicious intent.

But, by the same token, I don't sense any overpowering sense of right or wrong. It's like it doesn't have a concept or evil or good. It just operates on a neutral basis."

"So we don't know whether this is friend or foe," the Professor said. "Interesting. I would like to speak with this presence, if I could. Is it there?"

"It's always here. It's listening now." She was quiet again. "I don't think it wants to speak to anyone."

"No?"

"No. So far, it hasn't spoken to anyone but me."

"Hmm." The Professor was quiet for a moment. "I'm going to try to contact it telepathically, Jean, if that's alright with you."

She was hesitant. "If you must, but I don't think it will talk."

"I'd like to try." The Professor shut his eyes, letting his telepathy reach out into Jean's brain. Immediately upon entering, he was almost overwhelmed by the intense power that surged forth in him. Whatever inhabited her body was suddenly everywhere, feeding off her emotions and thoughts. With every sensation it absorbed, it's power seemed to buzz even more.

Xavier realized that the Phoenix was acutely aware of his presence, though it seemed not to acknowledge him Rather, it watched silently, not revealing itself. For what reason, he did not know.

'Greetings,' he told the Phoenix, which did not respond. 'I'm not here to hurt you, I just want to speak.'

The humming of power seemed to increase, though there was no response. 'Please,' the Professor asked again, 'I...'

No. With a sudden push, the Professor was out of Jean's brain. The psychic backlash almost knocked him over.

"Professor!" Jean ran over and took his hand. "Are you alright?"

"It pushed me out," the Professor said, slightly dazed. "I've never been hit with such force, Jean."

"I told you it wouldn't want to talk," Jean said. "I don't think it's mad, at least. Just.... doesn't want to talk."

After taking a moment to recover, the Professor spoke again. "Perhaps it's best to wait a bit, until this presence is ready to show itself more openly. We don't want to anger it."

"I think that's for the best," Jean said.

There was a knock at the door. "Warren and Betsy are here," Ororo said, poking her head in.

"Thank you, Ororo," the Professor responded, wheeling out. "We will continue this another time, Jean. Why don't you come with me to greet Warren and Betsy?"

Minutes later, Jean and the Professor stood in the foyer, where the two guests stood, their bags at their feet. "Jeannie," Warren said, a large smile on his face. Giving his former love a large embrace, he muttered. "I missed you."

"It's good to see you, Warren," she said, smiling.

"It's good to be home," Warren said, removing his coat. "Do you mind?" he asked, glancing at the Professor, who shook his head. With Betsy's help, Warren unfastened the straps that kept his wings tightly pinned against his body. With a sigh of relief, he stretched the wings to their full 16-foot wingspan.

"So why exactly did you call Warren here," Betsy asked, not masking her curiosity.

The Professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. I need your help breaking into the Hellfire Club."

-----

Taking one final drag, Remy discarded his cigarette on the cement, crushing the tip with his scuffed-up boots. After briefly glancing behind him, he made a small series of knocks on the door in front of him. After a moment, the heavy wooden door opened and a scruffy looking man peered out. "Remy?" he asked. "Remy LeBeau?"

"De one and only," he replied, clasping hands with the grinning man.

"It's been ages, Remy. How've ya been?"

"Been better. I take it y' heard 'bout de Guild stuff."

"Yeah." The man looked sympathetic. "Heard Belle is raising hell down there, trying to get everything resolved so you can go back."

Remy chuckled. "Not sure if dat's gonna happen homme." The man looked curiously at him. "But don' worry 'bout dat. I need a favor."

"Hey, you know I'll help you with anything. Name it."

"Tryin' to track dis girl down. Y' seem t' have a knack for finding people. T'ought you might be able t' help."

The man grinned with amusement. "You haven't changed a bit. Got a name?"

"Her name is Marie, but she'll probably go by de name Rogue. Don' have a last name. Dark hair wit' a white stripe down de front. Like a skunk, wit'out de smelly business. Oh, she's involved in dat mutant terrorist group, de Brotherhood."

The man shook his head. "You sure can pick 'em, LeBeau. I'll see what I can do. Come back in a few days."

"Will do. T'anks, homme."

-----

Scott stared at the phone for about fifteen minutes before finally picking up the receiver. Cradling the phone next to his ear, he dialed the number he'd dialed many times before, only to hang up when it rang. This time, he wasn't going to hang up.

After a couple rings, someone on the other end picked up. "Hello?" a man's gruff and tired voice answered.

"Alex? It's Scott."

There was a pause. "Scott, hey. Haven't heard from you in a while. How've you been? How's Jean?"

"She's great. We're both fine. Listen, I need a favor...."

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