St Peter and his boss belong to themselves, fairly obviously. I hope they like the cameo.

Sincerely,

Wacky

St Peter was a saint who had much to do and, although he had all the time in the world to do it, there always seemed to be an infinity of things more to do, and not enough infinite time to do it in. But there were always some things that he made sure he did on a regular basis, like keep the gates oiled, keep his database of entrants through the gates updated (with a little help from one of his employees' girlfriend) on his brand new computer, and also keep up a busy social sechedule with Saint Magdalene, whom to be honest he was beginning to develop quite a fondness for.

But some things needed to be done and just couldn't be put on a list to be conjured up again a few thousand years in the future, no. It had to be done now. He was a good boss, and he didn't like his employees being accosted by crazy former sexpots or the council of all that was unholy and un-nice. Nor cause him to get into a fist fight with his girl.

He needed to talk with HIM.

As the Saint approached the solid oak door to the inner sanctum with the Words "The Buck REALLY stops HERE." engraved on a brass plaque, he pondered when the last time it was he had a chat with the Boss, the Head honcho. It must have been a while, for the standing orders were thorough, and his Supervisor was someone who tended to let his actions speak for himself. A very quiet type.

The Saint raised his hand in a fist, ready to knock, when the door opened.

St Peter sometimes wondered if his boss knew how annoying his omniscience was to other people. Especially when combined with his Omnipotence. He walked into the room, sparsely yet stylishly decorated with a few shelves lined with books around the walls, and a solid mahogany desk behind which sat a chair. With its back turned to him. On the desk was what looked like a computer terminal, with a pad of paper with scrawled notes at its side.

"Peter, my friend, what brings you here today," boomed out the sonorous voice, friendly, with a tone of happy expectation that the Saint had come to speak to him to drag him out of his work. The chair stayed turned away from Peter. "I have to say, sometimes I wonder if I really should have condensed the weather functions into one climate class. It was such an easy thing to think of at the time, you know, Peter," the voice went on, immersed in work and the computer screen which was even then blinking characters and strings of Code in ghostly green text. The keyboard was typing by itself, keys pressing down as if motivated by a poltergeist. "I figured that no one could possibly mess with a Class that big with so many environment variables, and how mistaken was I... can you imagine the memory I programmed for the array? Tremendous! Anyway, you'd think after I had to wipe the program once that they'd listen and stop messing with the data variables, but of course, they never seem to do. I think I'll just have to include several Climate Classes... The memory, the memory! There's never enough to do what I want, even if it's infinite!" The lines of code continued for a little longer, then stopped. The computer terminal's screen blinked, then showed a little ball bouncing around merrily around the screen, changing colours every few seconds. "Anyway, enough with my work. What's bothering you, Peter?"

"Employee trouble, sir," the saint replied, somewhat mournful. "One of my people is being rather unfairly persecuted by the council of thirteen. He just can't get his work done with their interfering. I was wondering if you could take it up with..."

"Him." The voice was not quite as happy.

"Yes."

The voice sighed. "I'll see what I can do, my friend, over our Chess game, but to be quite frank I don't think he'll be reining his people in any time soon."

"Thank you anyway, sir."

"A pleasure, Peter." The little ball blinked back into lines of text again, and the saint left the room, hoping that Pete would have a little slack cut for him. Inter Office Politics was getting more and more vicious with each passing millenium.

*       *       *

Pete Wisdom was the happiest he'd been in a while. Of course, being with Kitty was usually enough to make him deliriously happy, but not every day was it that someone could get Cuban cigars. In a Cuban Cigar Shop. In Cuba. And with enough American Dollars to buy whatever he wanted.

"Like a bloody baby in a sweetshop," he muttered happily to himself, as his eye wandered carefully over the selection laid out for his perusal.

He selected one, his fingers flipping the cigar expertly out of its box in one fluid motion, set it in the corner of his mouth in a rakish grin, and bit down hard. The bitter tang of the dried tobacco leaves filtered over his tongue, and he delighted in the different taste that gently wafted its way to his nose passage, a far cry from the cigarettes he usually had. His other hand pulled out a five dollar note from his pocket and passed it to the smiling shop owner.

He drew his hand back. "Nah, wait," he said, pulling the bill out of the shopkeeper's reach. He reached down into his battered black jacket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. The Shop Owner, who just previously had a confused look on his face, melted into a happy smile.

"Yeah, the case, could yer?" Pete asked, with a satisfied grin, as the man across the counter packaged a case in fine brown paper, wrapping it with exquisite skill. "Best cigars I ever 'ad, and I 'ain't even lit one up yet." He received the box carefully, almost cradling it as if it was his child, and again thanked the storekeeper, who was smiling even more at the mention of the words "Keep the change." Holding it under one arm, Pete pushed open the door to the shop and stepped out into the warm Cuban sunlight, into a street just a few down from the beaches that it was famous for. He flicked up a finger, and soon the cigar sticking stylishly out of the corner of his mouth was smoking merrily, drawing excellently.

"Got the cigars, hhmmmm?" a sweet voice purred to his left. Pete turned, and he could not really believe his eyes.

Kitty Pryde was not wearing her usual jumper and jeans, that was for sure. She was showing a lot more of her slim figure than she usually did, and the hair she usually had flowing free was now tied in an elaborate knot held by a clip at the back of the head. Pete had to say that it framed her face very well. And the denim shorts, and the almost non existent t shirt... it framed her body in ways that made  his cheeks suddenly glow crimson. He'd never really seen her like that in the street showing herself off, even if her ensemble was quite modest for the surroundings.

He was rather lost for words, quite odd for the fast talking Englishman.

Kitty mock slapped him. "Come on, don't gape at me like that, I'm blending in with the crowd," she laughed, as she took his free hand and began to shepherd him down to the beachfront. It was, at best, a rather futile effort, for her light skin and odd hybrid of British and American mannerisms screamed out "Tourist" to the immediate, casual observer. She didn't seem to notice, however. And Pete, still dressed in his usual attire, looked even more out of place, so Kitty was quite happy with her own detective work. She did notice, however, that the street vendors seemed to zero in on HER and not her lover as they made their pitches to buy obviously worthless junk. She figured she might have to humour one of them one day, but now was not the time. She had a job to do.

She leaned in to his ear, and Pete obligingly bent down to make her job easier. "I noticed our Southern Belle down on the beach... as sore a thumb as you, really. She's sunbaking or something similar, but quite a ways away from the other people. Unfortunate, but it has to happen." She paused for a moment. "You did bring Remy here, right?"

"Dear, I din't just go ter New Orleans, find 'is friggin arse, drag 'im down 'ere fer booze an' women, win three grand off him a' poker an' spend some a' it on cigars just fer the pleasure of it, like," Pete replied, drawing another big breath from the cigar. "'E's ere, I told 'im ter meet me at the beach, at erbout," and he looked down at his watch, "Now." He looked down at Kitty, a puff of smoke escaping from his mouth. "Did I tell yer 'at I really missed you, love?"

It was at that moment that Pete saw Kitty in the crowd 10 metres in front of him, who smiled at him, almost jumped in excitement, and waved happily.

The Kitty at his side swore. "No. And to be frank I don't care," she rasped.

"What the..."

Pete automatically shook Kitty's hand off and spun, his jacket swirling theatrically, and to his horror he saw his love melt and shift into a ferocious blue skinned warrior.

"Sheeeite," Pete managed to say, before Mystique jumped and landed a perfect kick into him, sending him back a few metres onto his rear. "The Cigars!" he cried, as the finely crafted box shattered and spread its contents on the ground. His body screamed in pain as it hit the ground, already hurting considerably from the perfectly executed kick, but Pete knew he had made the right decision, even as the stab of pain from his stomach began to subside. The Blue Lady knew how to kick like a mule. The crowd scattered in fear, a cry of terror rising into the air as people fled the scene. Pete rolled to his feet and took a look at his beloved and newly acquired cigars. They were mostly crushed beyond repair.

"WHY BLOODY ME!" he howled, to no one in particular.

His opponent, with unnatural grace and speed, started a barrage of kicks, most aimed at his head. Pete faded, following the movements just like he had been taught at the academy and by Kitty in some of their more "intimate" sparring sessions. Mystique gave him no time to counterattack, each kick balanced and poised, yet flicking out like a viper with each attack. "No offense, Mr Wisdom," she snarled, as she continued to kick, "but someone wants you dead, and I was paid a lot of money to make sure it happens." She sprang back as Pete tried a sweep at her feet, jumping lightly above the move. "There's just no certainty in anything any more, you know," she said, as she landed neatly and extended her hands in a warding gesture. Pete scrambled back to his feet, settling into his own fighting stance. "Before there were X men and Brotherhoods and Gens and Whatevers, and it all seems so terribly IMPORTANT," she said, smiling crookedly. "But then, now, what else is there? What else? Nothing but the dollar and the chance to take out some frustrations on an old acquantance of yours." She sweeped a kick at head height behind her, which almost caught Kitty preparing a jab at Mystique's head. Kitty ducked, and flipped backward, behind the blue scaled woman, settling into her well trained Ninjitsu positions. "Like I said, little girl," she continued. "A lot of things change over the years. Empires rise and fall, nations grow and shrink... Just like the USSR."

Kitty's eyes suddenly hardened. Pete saw it.

"You shut up," Kitty said, softly. It was hard and edged with anger and Pete knew that was the worst thing she could have said at that moment.

"Oh yes, you remember. Isn't it sad that when nations have no enemies, things are so confused? When Xavier has no enemies, he is lost, without direction? hmmm? When people die for their loved ones, they are ignored?" Mystique's face was twisted into a feral grin of sadistic pleasure by then. "I remember someone, he has a name just like Pete's..."

Kitty shrieked a shriek of complete rage and launched herself at her tormentor, arms and legs blurring in a motion that Pete just could not see. Mystique did not seem overly worried, no, she kept on talking, even as she lazily avoided each attack. "And don't think I'm just doing this out of spite. I'm being asked to say it," she said cheerfully, blocking each of Kitty's blindingly fast moves with an audible clap of flesh on flesh. With one final flourish, she palmed Kitty and sent her flying backward. She turned back to face Pete, and froze.

Pete's hands were glowing with fantastic energy, two balls of luminescent heat growing steadily stronger with each passing moment. She had no time to reach him before he unleashed it. "Don't think I'm Just doin' 'is out a' spite," Pete snarled. "Yer just pissed me girl off, an' a little voice in me head is tellin me ter do 'is."

The Blue Woman had little time to utter anything before the incandescent balls of light smashed into her body and sent her flying into a market stall, smashing the timbers and propelling the mass backward into the walls of a building. A smoking ruin was all that was left, although witnesses were sure they saw someone extra walk out from the carnage in one of the medical teams than the number who came in to inspect the building damage.

Pete looked down at his smoking hands, the remains of his beautiful cigars, and the slumped form of his beautiful girl gingerly picking herself up from the street. He almost wanted to bloody cry. His stomach still hurt each time he breathed in and out, but it was beginning to become bearable, and he hobbled over to Kitty. When he loomed over her, he could see the bright tears streaming down her face, her eyes rimmed with red. She looked up at him despairingly, the bleak pain in her face incongruous with the outfit she wore, ironically the same outfit that had earlier stolen speech from Pete. She looked at him for what seemed to be a long time, but was in actuality about five seconds.

"Why did I fall in love with you?" she croaked plaintively. Pete hunched down and wrapped his arms around her, as he began to hear police sirens and the gradual increasing hubbub of concerned spectators. There was a slight, sad smile on her face, and her eyes looked deep into his, looking for something in them. When she was satisfied she had found it, her smile got a little wider. "Scratch that. I know." Pete helped her to her feet, and they stood, waiting for the police to come and for a short talk with some officers about what had happened. "You know, when she told me... about Russia... about Pyotr. It hurt." She looked back at Pete. "For some time."

"How long?" Pete asked.

"3.76 seconds," she replied, smiling wanly. "I realised she was being told to say it, and why should it matter? Pyotr was a crush, and you're not. And then I thought that perhaps this was THEM again. And I've had enough heartache from Samantha and her friends to get too worked up over them." She waited for an answer, and heard none. She turned to look at her lover, a quizzical look on her face.

She grinned at his incredulous look. "Trust me, for someone like me, that is nearly an eternity..."
 
 

THE END