The X-Project

Christian and the X-Men begin meeting with Kane's old friends, and digging up as much information as they can.



The estate dated back to the 15th century, one of the rare few that was untouched by both the Napoleonic Wars and Franco's Civil War, The courtyard was overgrown; a thicket of hedges and climbing vines gone riot, to the point that the centerpiece of the front courtyard, a massive basined fountain with a statue of Minerva raising out of it, was all but obscured by broad ivy leaves. It looked more as if she was fighting her way out of the foliage.

All around them in the green, the sounds of bird song trilled. A wood pigeon, fat and content, flapped to a perch on Minerva's outstretched arm. There wasn't so much of a sound as much as an inverse of sound, as the wood pigeon exploded into a shower of feathers. It was followed by the keening cry of a raptor dopplering away as it beat its massive wings to draw itself back up into the sky, prey dangling from its claws beneath it.

Christian Kane just smiled. "Ah, Alejandro."

"Christian! Mi amigo! Ah yes, it has been too long!" Alejandro Montoya walked out towards the fountain, adjusting the thick falconer's glove on his arm. He ran a free hand over his balding scalp, walking briskly towards his comrade. "Far too long," he repeated. "What brings you to my humble estate, old friend?"

"Unless I have my guess wrong, I'm willing to bet you already know, you dago degenerate." Kane shook his hand warmly. "This is my son, and his friends."

Garrison glowered at his father, and was ignored. "Now let's find a bottle of red, and you can tell me whether or not that I'm right and we still have a little problem that we need to take care of again. This is Ororo, Shiro, Adrienne and Marius. Good people. Professionals. Almost as good as we were."

"Though with any luck, we will not need to be," Ororo murmured. Though it was looking more and more likely that this Zemo character was still around and up to something, it was still uncertain what exactly his aim was.

With an elaborate bow, which lingered a touch longer with the women, Alejandro waved them into his home to talk.



Bourgogne in the spring. If there was ever a justification for the continued national arrogance of the French, it could be found in the countryside that comprised the Bourgogne region while in full bloom. Each tiny town they passed looked only barely touched by progress and the modern age. Satellite dishes were tucked into the niches between the leaden eaves of centuries old stone farm houses, BMWs were parked in converted stables, and the occasional road sign sprung up from the verdant growth at the sides of the road. But the farms and fields existed as they had for countless ages, each one home to a rare and unique product. Wines found only from the grapes of a few square miles of vinyard and bottled yearly, cheeses made distinct by the local waters and fodder for the cattle and techniques in making them handed down as family secrets, sausage and smoked meats flavoured with only locally grown and gathered herbs and fungi. It was a complex and wealthy area, and their goal was at the centre of it.

The vinyard they pulled into was indistinguishable from a half dozen they had already passed. Kane stepped from the rental van with a smile.

"You are about to experience the very best and worst the French have to offer. A few tips. Don't try and keep up with him when he starts pouring the wine, don't ask what's in the sausage, if you're a vegetarian, for god's sakes keep it to yourself, and most importantly," Christian wagged a finger at them. "Don't sleep with him. All of France will know about it by this time tomorrow."

"Sacrebleu!" the booming Gallic voice echoed throughout the vineyard. "Mon ami! Mon brave! C'est si bien, cette surprise, non?" A slim man with a shock of white hair and a leathery tan literally leaped over a hedge, bouncing like a child in a playground despite his age. "Monsieur Christian Kane! Bienvenu au ma maison, Chateau la Grenouille. Alors," he shouted over his shoulder. "Boy! The wine! And not the '02 that the chef keeps hiding in the kitchen! Bring... bring the milliene, vite! Vite!"

"At last, one who speaks my language," Marius said as the man embraced the older spy, leaving it to the imagination as to whether he was referring to the French or the immediate call for alcohol.

"Georges, you mad bastard. " Kane shook the man's hand, as soon as he let go of Marius. "These are my son's friends. That group of mutants that were involved in that Russian hostage situation a while ago? Turns out they volunteered to give me a lift over to talk." The British spy straightened his jacket. "I'm guessing you know what I want to talk about."

"Mais oui," the Frenchman exclaimed. "It can be none other than our old nemesis, that bête noir, Baron Zemo, no? I have, how do you English say, kept my hand in une petite bit where news of the Baron is concerned. But never fear, mon ami! I, Georges Batroc, am proud to once more arise for the glory of France and put down cette putain once more! Formidable, non?"

"Only if Zemo's plans involve very slow car chases and large print secret plans." Garrison muttered.

"Good. Then you've seen the signs too. I've been looking for confirmation that he's back. Real evidence. What do you think. Shostokov, perhaps?"

Batroc gave him a cryptic smile as he waved them all inside his home.