So this is my extremely belated and as-of-yet-unfinished part of a Halloween challenge I put out in 2016...to which HbCooper soundly kicked my derriere. I don't know why it's so dang hard for me to write anymore (seriously, I've played hooky AND taken vacations from work with the sole intent of writing, and it has yet to yield more than a few measly paragraphs and an unhealthy amount of anxiety!). Rather than let another year pass, I'm posting what I have so far. Which was supposed to be a short story and yet turned into this horribly long one-shot because I can't do anything in small doses. I'm also going to put up the drawing that goes with it even though it's a total story spoiler, just 'cause I'm sick of looking at it in my art & writing folder. Maybe with more announcements on the upcoming Rogue & Gambit series I'll be inspired to finish this by Christmas :p

HAVE A HAPPY HALLOWEEN Y'ALL!

Autumn, and the dog days of summer, had come and gone with unnatural haste, banished to the depths of memory by October's chilly vendetta against the denizens of New York City. Rogue glided over the old stone rampart surrounding 890 Fifth Avenue like a will-o-the-wisp given form and the power of flight, and dropped to the gravel with barely a rustle from her clothing. An inconspicuous grass hillock turned in her direction, emitting warning chirps from its hidden machinery. She paused warily and hugged the paper grocery bag tighter to her chest.

The beeping ended in a long, singular bleat as the security system accepted her presence. She breathed out in relief; even though the lasers couldn't penetrate her semi-invulnerable hide, they still packed a wallop.

Once her eyes adjusted to the shadowy mini-forest encircling the estate, the lone X-man-cum-Avenger detoured from the foot path into a copse of stately oak and maple. This late evening hour, just after closing for the amusement park once known as Avengers Mansion, was the only time she could wander freely without being harassed by gawking tourists.

She meandered through the dark, skirting clumps of Bottlebrush on Squirrel Girl's well-worn critter trail, in no rush to return to the circus she'd called home base for the better part of a year. Fallen leaves crackled underfoot and whirled around her ankles on a chilly October breeze. The trees were nearly naked now but for the fog rolling in from the Hudson river, misting their creaky branches with a glistening, funereal shroud. High above, a full moon played hide-n-seek among the gathering clouds. Its pale, fitful light cast long fingered shadows from every gnarled twig and thorny vine.

Too soon, the outer edge of the courtyard behind the house came into view. She inhaled one last whiff of damp, earthy bark and sighed. The spooky atmosphere was a depressing reminder of how little time remained until Halloween. Between hunting for the Red Skull and searching for a cure for Terrigen mist cooties, she'd completely dropped the ball on this year's plans.

Sure, handing out candy to visiting kids tomorrow would be fun—and take her mind off the infection eating away at her skin—but she longed for more entertaining options. Far too many years had passed since last she'd enjoyed a haunted house road trip with friends. She dearly missed stealing swigs of Logan's spiked cider and laughing with Rachel as Freddy Krueger chased their screaming students through a maze of clowns and chainsaw-wielding maniacs.

"Friends. Yeah, right. Guess that's what I get for joining 'the enemy'—everybody's too busy to hang out now," she muttered grumpily to her groceries. "Oh well. Such is life. If nothin' else, I s'pose I'll just have to make do with a couple a' horror movies."

The very idea of such a conciliatory compromise led to a bout of disgruntled leaf-kicking. Christmas was the only holiday the Avengers celebrated. And their dinner party always devolved into thinly veiled accusations and drunken debauchery long before midnight. It was fun to watch—but only as long as you didn't get sucked into the inevitable cat fight. Her team would probably end up on duty anyway, jetting off to who-knows-where and battling the latest idiot inhuman with a bent for world domination. Still, she'd be damned if she'd sulk alone in her room all night. Maybe she could call Gambit...

"Nope." She derailed that train of thought before it could gain momentum. "That'd only end in disaster and you know it."

Lost in theoretical possibilities, she rounded the Hank Pym memorial without looking up from her well worn suede boots—and nearly walked face-first into the ghoulish figure floating on the opposite side. She froze abruptly, choking on a surprised gasp, her foot hovering cartoonishly in mid-step.

At first glance she thought Stark had rigged a life-sized Slimer in the yard to prank the Unity Squad's unsuspecting night owls. A double take didn't do much to set her at ease; the glowing center mass was none other the team's mystic Houngan and teleporter, Doctor Voodoo. Dark skin completely engulfed in otherworldly green flames, legs crossed Indian style with his eyes closed and chin lowered, he was chanting softly in a language she didn't recognize. Four feet off the ground. Meditating. Possibly conjuring demons.

Rogue promptly spun a 180 on her grounded heel and made for the safety of the treeline. If there was one lesson above all others she'd learned from growing up in the deep south, it was never to disturb a witch doctor during one of their sacred rituals. Exorcism was not an experience she wanted to repeat.

"ANNA MARIE!"

A deep, foreboding voice boomed throughout the courtyard, seeming to rise from the very flagstones. Rogue hunched her shoulders with a mental 'd'oh!' and turned back around, smiling nervously even as goosebumps rippled across her arms and down her spine.

"Sorry, Voodoo. Ah didn't realize you were out here."

Jericho Drumm touched down gracefully on the tips of his toes, cat-like, his gnarled Legba staff dangling loosely by his side. The eerie fire surrounding his body snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

"Likewise." He returned her sheepish smile, his voice back to its more soulful, natural state instead of a demonic growl. "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. I was speaking to my Ti Bon Ange, making sure they remember their invitation for tomorrow. Ghosts, much like teenagers, can be surprisingly forgetful."

"Oh? You givin' them a pep talk to scare the bejeezus outta trick or treaters?"

"Ha!" he laughed; a rich, warm, staccato sound on a cold fall eve, and beckoned her closer. "No, this is something more personal. Come, walk with me. You look bored."

Curious, she fell in beside him as he headed for the property's winding perimeter trail.

"The Día de Muertos has always been very near and dear to my heart. So it's no surprise I like to spend All Hallows Eve by myself, preparing to help the dearly departed on their busiest day. I've always preferred seclusion. But ever since my stint as Sorcerer Supreme I was spending all my time alone, showing every textbook sign of disassociation and isolation without ever realizing it. Case in point: Last year I was invited to be the guest of honor at a fundraiser for underprivileged and orphaned children. I didn't go. Not because I had new spells to learn or worlds to defend... I wanted to catch up on Orange is the New Black." He dipped his head and closed his eyes, contrite.

"We're still human under the powers and responsibilities, Jericho," she proffered kindly.

"True. Yet we hardly have time to appreciate it. I was three hours into a Netflix binge when a lost soul forced her way into my inner sanctum. Generally, I don't get involved in the physical affairs of ghosts. To help one would open the door to countless others, and, even though I wish I could, I can't fix the whole world. This ghost's name was Tatiana, and she was very pissed off."

In a grumbled undertone, he added, "I still haven't figured out how she got past my wards of solitude."

The corner of Rogue's mouth quirked upwards; she had no shortage of experience when it came to arguments with overbearing phantasms.

"So this girl, this distraught ti bon ange stuck between the living world and what you might call 'Heaven', sought me out because joining the Loa meant leaving her little sister defenseless and at the mercy of her parents—both of whom were total crack addicts," he continued, irritation supplanting his calm tone. "She begged me to travel to her old home in Carrefour. In the poorest parts of Haiti, young women are frequently sold or given to other families. You see, both she and her sister had tested positive for the X-gene right before her untimely death, which made them something of an exotic acquisition. By the time I reached the house, the girl had already been traded to a local warlord for a kilo of heroin."

At a loss for words, Rogue stopped and turned to Jericho. The disgust in her expression spoke for her.

"It was very unfortunate, the way the compound's propane tanks exploded the way they did," Doctor Voodoo said flatly, though there was a cold, vicious gleam in his mismatched blue and brown eyes. "Took out their entire drug operation, down to the last man."

Rogue snorted knowingly. "Sounds like there was some mighty powerful magic involved. Did it help Tatiana?"

"Yes. With the threat gone and peace restored, her soul was finally able to move on."

"It's a right shame the poor girl didn't get a chance to grow up. I bet she and I would've gotten along famously."

"Of that I have no doubt. Her perseverance and devotion definitely made the ancestors proud," Jericho affirmed, looking skyward with a small smile upon his lips.

"What happened to her sister?"

"Keekah is doing very well now, as are the others who were with her. At first I was concerned that the trauma had caused irreparable damage to her mental health, yet she has this—this incredibly positive outlook for a girl who's seen the worst of human society. Her optimism is truly amazing. And contagious! The foster kids in her home are some of the most well-balanced I've ever seen. Ironically, it is run by the same people who hold the fundraiser I didn't want to attend."

"Sure is a small world sometimes, ain't it? Funny how life lessons come around like that," Rogue said.

"Indeed. So this year I volunteered to be a conduit for the children's late family members on All Saints Day. Most dead don't have the know-how or power to speak to their loved ones."

"Oh, wow. That's really big of you, sugah."

They'd made a complete circle of the grounds and were now facing the front of the mansion. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the gaudily decorated iron gates a camera flash popped; apparently it was a slow night for the paparazzi.

"Holding the door to the spirit realm open will be very draining, but worth it," Doctor Voodoo said, ignoring the intrusion as he brushed the dreadlocks back from his forehead. "It's my penance; an important reminder not to overlook coincidences."

He paused and seemed to consider the light and dark strands tangled around his knuckle. Glancing up at Rogue's pale visage, with her faint smattering of freckles and skunk-striped, wild mane of auburn hair, a sardonic laugh escaped his lips.

"Do you have any plans for Halloween, Anna Marie?" he asked, with a casualness belying his amused expression.

Rogue cocked an eyebrow, puzzled by his unfathomable inner realization. "No, can't say I do."

"Would you like to be my plus one for a formal costume party?"

Her grip on the grocery bag tightened. Lips pursed and brow furrowed, she stuffed her other hand deep into the pocket of her bomber jacket and stared at the ground.

Doctor Voodoo, ever the observant psychiatrist, backpedaled quickly.

"I didn't mean to sound like I was asking you on a date. I just—you seem so—"

For a painfully long moment she let him drown in apologetic, awkward silence. Then, with an impish grin, she looked up.

"I was just trying to figure out what to wear on such short notice, actually, but I'm flattered ta think you'd ask me out, Jericho."

His shoulders visibly relaxed. "Well, I uh... I figured you wouldn't be interested in dating co-workers after the fiasco with Johnny."

"You'd be right. I'd love to go to the party with you and meet these kids, though. Hope you like dancing, 'cause I've never been much of a wallflower."

He shook his head and affected a sad moue. "Unfortunately, the powers that be saw fit to give me two left feet."

"I find it very difficult to believe that a native son of Port-au-Prince doesn't know how ta cut a rug. You don't know what you're missin', hon."

"Haha, I'm sure I'll find out. It's settled, then. I'll meet you by the fountain at eight. Wear what you like as long as you bring a mask. Bòn nwi, Rogue (Goodnight)." Doctor Voodoo nodded his farewell and turned back towards the courtyard, his long purple cape snapping in the breeze.

Most of the next morning was lost to a pitched battle with the Mansion's outdated warning system. A malicious virus caused the main server to crash, leaving their computers unable to monitor suspicious global activity. Thankfully, nothing major happened in the downtime (for once!) and the gates opened as usual— the public being none the wiser to the Unity Squad's temporary inability to protect them. Rogue struggled with unfamiliar safety firewalls and protocols until she was able to reboot everything and get it working, albeit in a limited capacity. Regrettably for her, though, the emergency programming stint left precious little time to throw together a costume.

At last she slumped back in the overstuffed, Thor-sized computer chair and opened Google on the largest screen. Searching for 'women's Halloween costume' brought up an eye-rolling assortment of outfits better suited to a party at the Playboy mansion than a children's fundraiser. Halfway down the image list she gaped in astonishment. A hyper sexualized, impressively skimpy version of her own green and white tunic flickered and glowed beneath the mouse cursor. It even featured a brown and white wig, matching gloves, and leggings.

"Dress like the Avenger Rogue for Halloween or Cosplay!'' the description proclaimed.

Rogue didn't even try to suppress a goofy grin. Proper recognition for her heroics, no matter how cheaply made, did wonders for her self-esteem. Clicking on the link led to a host of other imitations including Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four, and a minuscule number of X-Men. By the time she reached a knockoff version of Magneto's original purple and red duds constructed from painted cereal boxes, expanding foam and duct tape, she was laughing so hard she nearly forgot why she'd gotten online in the first place.

Then, a giant brain fart hit. The Unity Squad didn't have access to machinery capable of altering the unstable molecules of her uniform into a new ensemble.

"Craaap!" She groused, resting her chin in palm.

She was debating whether a last minute dash to a Halloween store would end in success or homicide when an unlikely source of help fortuitously stomped past the main office.

"Hey!" Rogue hollered, shooting out of her seat. "Hold up a minute, Janet!"

She rocketed into the hallway in hot pursuit, sliding across the marble floor in her socks ala Risky Business. The Wasp stopped and turned, surprised, and immediately scowled over top of the brand new server in her arms.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Whaddya want?"

"I could really use some help from a...a skilled fashionista," Rogue ventured, making a concerted effort at flattery despite her dislike of the snooty socialite. "I have a costume party to go to and haven't a blessed thing ta wear."

Janet Van Dyne pursed her lips and gave her teammate's curvy body a scathing, head-to-toe once over.

"I don't have anything that'll fit an Amazon, Rogue. Just throw a sheet over your head and go as a ghost."

Anna Marie gritted her teeth. She had no one to blame but herself for starting a war of attrition with the founder of the Avengers when the Unity Squad first convened. Pretending to be repentant, she wrung her fingers and put on the puppy dog eyes.

"You never used Pym particles to alter clothes? Ah'm not picky, anything'd work at this point."

"Of course I have." Wasp's pitiless expression softened ever so slightly at the mention of her late husband's famous contribution to science. "It's not easy to find off-the-rack de La Renta for a woman my size."

"Look—I don't wanna go in uniform and cause a ruckus, and nothin' I have here will cover up this mess," Rogue implored, tugging the collar of her suit down a few inches to reveal the Terrigen blisters lining her neck.

Janet whistled and grimaced. "Ew! Your skin is starting to look like Wade's!"

"Yeah. All the more reason to get outta here and enjoy myself while I still can."

Wasp stared stonily, seemingly indifferent, then pushed past the taller woman and set the heavy server down on a nearby desk. She jammed her fists into her hips.

"A couple months ago Wanda went to some Renaissance Faire down in Virginia to hang out with her sister. She wanted Danvers and I to go back with her so badly that she actually bought us our own custom made outfits. I never had time, though. And Carol...dresses aren't exactly Carol's thing. If Wanda didn't take them with her when she moved, they're probably still in Simon's old room," she informed. A sly smirk tugged at her lips. "Carol's might fit you. It wouldn't be the first time you stole from her."

Rogue seriously considered declining Jericho's invitation, but only for a moment; she and her once-nemesis had overcome their animosity long ago. And she really, really didn't want to be stuck here tonight.

"Carol's got three inches and forty pounds on me. And she's all muscle," Anna Marie responded calmly.

The petite Jersey native seemed surprised when her incendiary remark didn't hit the expected target.

Wasp crossed her arms and shrugged at the same time. "Well, I...guess I could alter her dress to fit you. Providing she's okay with it, of course."

A galactic Skype call to Captain Marvel's Alpha Flight space station backfired in an unexpected fashion: Carol exuberantly agreed to let Rogue borrow the dress, even telling her she was welcome to keep it—so long as she promised to accompany Wanda to a Faire in her stead. Left with no viable options, the X-Man reluctantly agreed. Janet poked, prodded and measured while the girls talked, transferring measurements to a well-worn dress mannequin she'd dragged out of storage.

The Scarlet Witch had an uncanny eye for guessing sizes; the royal purple, velvety surcoat, with its decorative, gold embroidered Celtic trim, would've fit Carol Danvers' athletic form perfectly. Rogue, on the other hand, could barely squeeze into it. Thankfully, the undergown—a loose fitting, cream colored chemise—had plenty of room. For the next few hours Wasp worked on widening hip seams and extending the retaining loops of the corset, lest her busty coworker rip the decorative pearls off at the first deep breath. Curmudgeonly attitude forgotten, the slender seamstress stitched here and tucked there, humming contentedly all the while.

In return for the favor, Rogue took on Wasp's abandoned mission. She set up the new server, ran diagnostics and installed the top-notch security Tony had sent over. Once finished, she skirted around noisy tourists and entered the hidden lab to access her stash of medicine. Since X-Men and Murphy's law tended to go hand in hand, downing a premature dose of anti-Terrigan serum seemed like a good idea against unforeseen calamities. She tidied up the mess Hank had left when last he checked her vitals. Then she reviewed the news one last time.

At last she could stall no more; there was only one tedious chore left.

Steeling herself against the inexplicable sense of dread inherent to the lowest level of the mansion, she tracked Quicksilver to the underground gym with the intention of assigning him candy duty. She'd been expecting belligerence. Yet she was pleasantly surprised; the silver-haired speedster was unusually cooperative—amicable, even. Luna, his half-Inhuman daughter, was coming for a visit to see the costumes of Earth's children, and doling out sweets to the local populace would be the perfect opportunity to fulfill the youngster's curiosity.

Had they been chatting anywhere else on the grounds, she would've stayed a bit and enjoyed Pietro's rare good humor, but the niggling feeling of being watched set her teeth on edge. One of these days she was just going to have to steel her nerves and do some actual investigating as to why...but not today.

So, with half an hour to spare, she headed to the tiny powder nook between Jarvis' butler room and the kitchen. The dress was the only occupant. Shrugging off Wasp's rudeness in disappearing without so much as a by your leave, she stripped down to her panties, slipped into the under-gown, and pulled on the heavy cotehardie. Partway through sliding the built-in corset over her head she realized she'd made a grave mistake; she'd forgotten to loosen the ties. With the stiff brocade paneling jammed tightly around her armpits and her ample chest making it impossible to go forward or back, she resembled nothing so much as an interpretive tree dance gone horribly awry when Janet opened the door.

Oh, the mortification. After the hysterical laughter and inappropriate Groot jokes subsided, Wasp undid the cords and freed Rogue from medieval clothing prison. When the corset was properly refastened, it pushed "the girls" upwards to greater prominence—so much so, in fact, Jan remarked aloud that she best refrain from jumping or else risk knocking herself out.

Wasp explained how she'd been busy in Tony's old workshop, grinding the exaggerated points from one of the Witch's Roma-inspired circlets and spray painting it gold. She'd fastened it atop a wide, thin linen scarf so the flowing headdress would neatly cap Rogue's white streak, lending an air of nobility to the ensemble. On her way back, she stopped to swipe a scrap of trim from the vintage sitting room curtains and steal the elastic laces from one of Captain America's sweatshirts. The result was a wide, frilly choker: The perfect cover for a disfigured throat.

Jan was reaching up to fasten it around the mutant's bare neck when Rogue inadvertently jerked away.

"Hold still, I'm not gonna strangle you," she frowned.

Rogue smiled apologetically at the older woman's motherly fussing. She delicately took the makeshift neckerchief from Wasp's hand.

"I don't want to hurt you by accident. It's been an age since I touched anyone."

"I—I...okay." Janet nodded in understanding and stepped back quickly, almost tripping over her own feet. From the other side of a coffee table she tried to hide her fear by packing up her sewing kit. "Ugh. This is hardly my best work but it's just gonna have to do on such short notice."

"It's fine, Jan." Rogue admired her reflection, swishing the fabric around her legs. "It's funny; when I was a teenager, I was obsessed with the Civil War era. All the ballgowns and pomp and circumstance, courtly gentlemen callers...it always seemed so romantic to me. I never got into Renaissance stuff 'cause that was the kind of thing only Yankees did. But this—this is really nice."

"That's because us Yankees have considerably better taste than you southern bumpkins!"

"Isn't Wanda from Europe?" Rogue asked innocently, enjoying Janet's apoplectic reaction in the mirror.

"Wanda hasn't always had the greatest fashion sense. I mean, c'mon, this is the same woman who ran around in a red leotard for most of her life. Who do you think designed her current uniform?!"

"I knew it! I knew she didn't come up with a suit that suave by herself," Anna Marie gloated. She snapped her fingers, suddenly recalling a vital missing component. "Oh! I don't suppose you have a mask lying around anywhere, do ya?"

"Cripes! You want my blood too, while you're at it?!"

"You wouldn't make for much of a meal, shorty."

Janet opened her mouth to unleash a tirade of snark but no sound came out. She looked down, touching her chin thoughtfully.

"Actually, I think I might still have the one from my Sexy Fox costume from last year. I'll be right back!"

Instantly, Wasp shrunk down to the size of her namesake and flitted out of the dressing room in a flash of black and yellow.

Rogue was curling her wild hair into tight spirals when Jan returned ten minutes later, triumphantly holding her prize aloft as though delivering the Olympic Torch. The ex X-Man took the mask and bit back a rude remark about a middle aged cougar owning an anthropomorphized fox face with come-hither eyes. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Thank you, Janet. I really do appreciate the help," Rogue said instead, catching Wasp for a quick, careful hug before the petite brunette could object.

"Yeah, well, next time you should plan better," Van Dyne spluttered. She collected her neatly folded jacket from the back of a settee and beat a hasty retreat.

"I sure hope finding a Halloween costume is mah biggest worry this time next year."

Wasp paused at the threshold of the room, fingers hesitating on the door knob. She glanced back over her shoulder with a wistful, melancholic look in her eye.

"Anna...With all the grief in our lives it's easy to forget how to live. You find yourself a hottie tonight and make some good memories."

The petite brunette winked and pulled the door closed behind her.

Rogue smiled sadly to herself; if she ever got her hands on Alex Summers, she was going to throttle him but good. First, for breaking Jan's heart, then again for abandoning the team. She pulled on a pair of stretchy, lacy mesh gloves from her extensive collection and looped the drafting points of her sleeves over each middle finger. With one final glance at the mirror she fluffed her curls and blew a kiss at her image. Memories, indeed. Tonight she was going to leave a lasting imprint on someone else's mind for a change.

Jericho, true to his word, was waiting promptly at eight o'clock by the stilled fountain, which had been covered with burlap to protect against the onset of winter. The bright white of his opera mask and crisply pressed dress shirt stood out starkly against the shadows; a welcoming beacon of distraction in the darkened yard.

"If I weren't me, I'd be very worried 'bout being whisked off through a trick mirror right about now," Rogue ruminated as she halted before him, tilting her head and admiring his costume. "Boy, I sure hope you can sing!"

Inspired by the dramatic flair of his muse, Doctor Voodoo flipped his long, black cloak over his shoulder, its gleaming red underpinnings undulating with the motion. He bowed while simultaneously making a motion similar to pulling the string on a curtain blind, conjuring a single, ethereal rose from thin air.

"This Phantom only sings the blues. And Wu-Tang, occasionally," he grinned, offering up the ghostly flower pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Here, a lovely flower for a lovely lady."

Taking it gratefully, she made a big show of sniffing the iridescent petals before it winked out of existence.

"Aww, you ol' fashioned charmer. That was really sweet. Thank you."

"Anytime. So, are you supposed to be anyone in particular...?"

Rogue shrugged and adjusted her plastic mask, which was trying to dig to China through her cheekbones. "I was thinkin' Eleanor of Aquitane, but I don't have enough jewelry."

"Hmm, yes. Your dress' design has a rich simplicity that suggests late 15th, early 16th century. You could be Anne Boleyn, too."

She side eyed him disapprovingly.

"While I appreciate your knowledge of European monarchs, I ain't some home wreckin' hussy. Don't make me smack you, Jericho."

Chuckling, he traced a series of arcane patterns in the space between them, his fingertips leaving a trail of fiery light—as though drawing with an invisible sparkler. "Hey, she was the only woman of her time to be granted the highest rank and title in England. I'm just saying. But regardless, you look great. Shall we?"

Rogue's lips corkscrewed in silent disagreement, yet she took his proffered elbow. The glowing runes he'd sketched began to smoke, gyrating in place and expanding in size, tumbling into one another and spinning faster and faster. A brilliantly lit portal appeared, wreathed in a ring of churning fog. The Avengers strutted through to a hollow, faint sound of drumbeats, and left the chilly New York evening behind.

Rogue shuddered uncontrollably; passing through Jericho's dimension portal made her skin crawl like she'd been brushed by the grim reaper's cold, skeletal fingers.

Gaily dressed guests yelped and dove away from the sudden, inexplicable burst of sickly green mist as it materialized smack in the middle of the dance floor. The live band screeched to a stop. Music was replaced by gasps of fear. Rogue coughed and flapped her hand ineffectually.

"Jericho?" she called.

Suddenly, a ten foot tall, very angry werewolf rose above the smoke where the Doctor should have been.

Its growl was that of a rabid beast who hungered for blood. Matted grey fur bristling, drool dripping from its jaws, it turned its great, golden eyes on the nearest patrons. Rogue immediately cocked her arm back for an ionic-powered haymaker.

But before she could send the monster back to limbo, its massive head tilted to one side, then lolled back on its neck. Muzzle pointing toward the gilded cupola at the center of the room, it loosed a wild howl—which segued into the same demonic voice she'd heard the night before.

"Happy Halloweeeeen!"

The crowd broke into riotous cheers, many returning the sentiment. The monster bared its enormous teeth in a frightening grin and burst into shimmering green flames, revealing a grinning Doctor Voodoo.

Rogue shook her head, smiling wryly, and applauded his ruse. Jericho had no idea how close he'd been to a one-way ticket into the next time zone.

"Now dat's an entrance!" cried a man dressed as an evil jester, pushing through the onlookers to enthusiastically shake the Doctor's hand. "Welcome home, mon ami. I'm so glad you made it!"

No one noticed how Rogue stood straighter when the red and black checkered clown lifted his macabre skull mask. The music started up again, rocking the house to a jazzy version of the Ghostbusters theme. Within moments they were surrounded by enthusiastic dancers who'd been scared away by their dramatic arrival.

"Good to see you, too!" Jericho hollered over the din, clapping the fellow on the shoulder as the trio weaseled through the crushing press of bodies, making for the safety of a small corner bar. Once they could hear again, he said, "Emil Lapin, this is my friend R—"

"Marian!" Rogue barked loudly, grabbing her date's arm. "Nice to meet ya's."

Doctor Voodoo stared at her, his brow wrinkled in confusion, more surprised by the sudden Jersey accent than her secretive pinching on the backside of his arm. Lapin insisted on kissing the knuckles of Rogue's gloved hand, who, in turn, resisted the urge to knock his teeth down his throat.

"Maid Marian, eh?" The stocky Cajun made no effort to hide his lecherous perusal of her exposed breasts. "Whereabouts you from?"

"She lives in Manhattan. But she's from...?" Jericho offered, a note of puzzlement in his tone.

"Hoboken. Just across from New Yawk," Rogue supplied. "You know, where da fella who bakes da cakes on Food Network lives."

"Well, we won' hold dat against you. I love your outfit, mademoiselle! I have a feelin' a friend o' mine is goin' to love it more, though."

If she'd been surprised stiff before, it was nothing compared to the rigidity of her muscles now; high tension steel used in bridgework was more flexible. She forced a polite laugh.

"Oh...? Hope youse didn't invite the Sheriff of Nottingham."

"Heh heh, nooo, you ain't gon' find none of dem law types here t'night. Unless it's a costume, of course. Nah, you'll laugh when you see him, he's dressed as—"

Emil stopped abruptly, a look of dread upon his face; across the cavernous hall, a raven-haired, heavyset vampire was shrieking his name and waving her meaty hand. When he waved limply in return, her beckoning became so exuberant she practically clobbered the poor guy beside her.

"Oh hell." He froze, looking as though he hoped the earth would suddenly swallow him whole.

"You're pretty popular tonight, my friend. Bonte mwen (my goodness)! She reminds me of those girls at Beatles concerts," Doctor Voodoo exclaimed as the trio watched the woman bulldoze her way through fellow patrons.

"Aughhh! I never should'a taken m' mask off. There goes any chance I had o' makin' it through de evening wit' my dignity." Lapin's shoulders slumped as he slid his headpiece back into place. "Jer, Pete brought dat Irish relic you asked for, the door...door ass..."

"The Duras na Duinn?"

"Yeah! Dat thingamajig. We got a room set up special next door at the Lovell place." The thief dug into a pouch at his hip and handed them a pair of bright orange, plastic bracelets. "Here, you'll need these t' drink. There's food out in de courtyard and liquor everywhere, please help yourselves. Well, my friends, duty —and drunks— call."

He brushed off his sleeves, straightened his doublet, steeled himself like a man facing the electric chair, and strutted toward his one-woman fan club.

The second he was out of hearing range, Rogue turned to Doctor Voodoo with accusing eyes.

"Jericho Drumm, where are we?" she demanded.

"The Board of Trade building," Voodoo replied cheerfully.

"I suppose it's too much to hope you mean the one in Chicago..."

"Ha! No, we're in Louisiana. In the Central Business District."

To be honest, she'd already figured out their location but was trying really hard not to believe it.

"Great." She gritted out disdainfully. "From the way you were talkin', I thought this shindig was in Haiti. Did he put you up to this?"

"'He' who? Emil?" Jericho asked, confused, as he flagged down a petite bartender. "Since when do you not like New Orleans?!"

His teammate didn't answer. She was too busy fidgeting with her mask, muttering, "I should'a known better than to believe that cockamamie story about those little girls. Y'all're just alike, a pair of sneaky snakes in the—"

"Rogue, first of all, this is my city," Voodoo interrupted sternly. "I may have been born in Haiti, but this is where I've lived most of my life. Second, Tati and Keekah are...were...real people. And this IS an actual fundraiser. Until three minutes ago I didn't even know you knew Lapin, let alone have bad blood with him. He's part of the organization that runs the Fagan foundation for underprivileged youth."

Good thing she had a mask on, because the way her eyes nearly popped out of her head would've been quite unseemly. "The Fagan foundation? Jericho, you do realize Emil's 'organization' is the Thieves Guild, right? Please tell me you're not one of them!"

He completely ignored the insinuation. "Would you like a drink?"

Tinkerbell the bartender had arrived, glancing up expectantly as she filled orders.

"Whiskey sour and make it a double, please," Anna Marie sighed.

"Sazerac on the rocks for me." Doctor Voodoo put a twenty on the bar. "Look, 'Marian', if being here is going to upset you so much, I can take you back to New York. I don't want you to be uncomfortable on my account."

"No, it's okay. I'm sorry. It's just...it's a shock ta be back here, and on their territory to boot. As far as lyin' bastards go, there are considerably worse offenders out there than the Thieves Guild. It's their rivals who get my hackles up."

"If you mean the Assassins, they bother everyone. Including me," he confided, placing a reassuring hand on her forearm. "But this is a charity. Granted, the board has a few businessmen who only care about their tax write-offs, and others are just trying to put on a good face so it'll distract from their tabloid exploits. Yet for every sleazeball politician involved, there's a decent, caring caseworker hard at work behind the scenes. No one would dare interfere with a fundraiser for children. You've got no cause for alarm here; We're among friends."

"Yeah, that's what worries me," she murmured under her breath, watching as Emil broke free from the large woman's drunken embrace and vanished into the crowd.

High above the pulsing neon strobes and fog machines a second party was just getting underway in a private upstairs room. VIP guests sipped expensive cognac and bragged about their accomplishments, surrounded by false walls cleverly painted to resemble a Transylvanian castle. Emil trudged up the stairs and was waved through by the bouncer. Toward the rear of the re-purposed office space, a group of unique individuals lounged on a leather sectional sofa, holding a special kind of business meeting.

"'Ey, fearless leader!" he panted as he pulled off his jester hat, airing out a sweaty mop of ginger hair. You gotta do somethin' about Matilda, man. Every time she gets a hold of me I see my life flash before m' eyes. Dat woman could squeeze de life outta Godzilla."

Gambit didn't look away from the animated conversation between his colleagues. "Then quit encouraging her, dummy."

"I'm not! I'm jus' tryin' to be polite. She's like a pit bull, thinks I'm some kind'a squeaky toy or somethin'," the scruffy communications officer grunted.

"Well, you are bite-sized. Better you than us, mate."

Emil pointed at the man who'd spoken, an English interloper in a rumpled tuxedo who slouched lazily against an armrest and regarded the offending digit with disinterest.

"Ain't you never heard dat dynamite comes in small packages?" Emil proclaimed.

Pete Wisdom, director of the Queen of England's supernatural squadron, leveled Lapin with the famously dry look for which he was known. "Izzat what you tell all your dates, then?"

Several committee members laughed at Lapin's affronted frown.

"Easy there, Pete. Just because he's short—" Gambit started to say.

"And literally dresses like a fool," Sister-in-law Mercy interjected with a huge grin.

"—Ain't no reason to pick on a man's virility. Though we all thank God every day dat there aren't any little Emils runnin' around."

"Yet," Lapin said smugly.

Mercy knocked back the last of her beer and eyed their MI:13 guest contemptuously through the slits in her filigree owl mask. "You Brits really are a stuffy bunch. How come you couldn' even get y'self a proper costume?"

Pete winked.

"I did, luv. I'm James Bond."

"Ugh," Emil rolled his eyes and pointedly turned his back on Wisdom. Addressing Gambit, he asked, "Did'ju see Jericho finally made it?"

"Oui. I have t' hand it to him: He makes one hell of an entrance. Gonna be hard for me to top dat Werewolf routine," the lean Acadian acknowledged, his smile filled with competitive bonhomie.

He perused the donation register on his iPad one last time and handed it to a burly fellow sitting cattycorner. Claude Poitier, defacto director of security and guild grump, practically snatched the tablet from his boss' hand, earning himself a reproachful look.

"Who dat he brought wit' him?" the big man asked gruffly as he flipped through the apps.

"Some friend o' his from New York. She sound like one of dem spray-tan, New Jersey twits from dat old MTV show. Helluva nice body, though," Lapin reported. He lifted his hands and pantomimed holding a pair of melons. "You should see her ti-"

"Who are we talking about?"

A slender, hooded woman had walked up behind Lapin, causing him to yelp and grab his chest. She giggled at the flustered thief and handed one of the tumblers she'd been carrying to Gambit. Emil regarded her sleek, hunter green ninja outfit with distaste; to him she looked a little too much like an assassin. The erstwhile X-Man, however, didn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, actually— he set his drink on an end table and promptly pulled her onto his lap.

"All I see is this pretty lil' thing," Gambit purred into her ear, causing more giggles. "I'm so glad Fat Cobra let you come, chère. I don' think I could stomach havin' to look at Emil's ugly mug all night."

She smacked his chest playfully and climbed back to her feet. "My boss is only too happy to contribute to such a noble, selfless cause. Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared."

Glancing up from the laptop he'd been using to sort the evening's earnings, thin, mousy Genard Alouette appraised the strange young woman spouting Buddhist quotes with a skeptical eye. Not much for conversation, he raised a covert eyebrow at his boss. Gambit cleared his throat and busied himself with the ice cubes in his bourbon.

"There's a lot of unsavory characters who'd steal such a big donation. But not us, petite. Philanthropists down to the last one."

The tall, Clark Gable imitator leaning against the wall behind Genard snorted inelegantly. "And nobody more so than our illustrious leader, mam'selle. If'n y'all will excuse me, I'm gon' go do something productive 'stead of lazing around all evenin' and watchin' dese fat cats cheat on dey wives."

"Theo, you are absolutely NO fun," Emil complained. "Dis ain't supposed t' be work, we're supposed t' be enjoying ourselves!"

Theoren Marceaux ruffled his cousin's hair roughly, but affectionately, in passing. "Somebody's gotta do a security check since Claude's too busy playin' Candy Crush over dere. Don' worry, I'll be sure an' tell 'Tilda you're hoping for a nice hometown girl to spice up ya evenin'."

Emil's cheeks went pale, then ruddy, with chameleon-like indignation.

"Pah! To hell wit' all of ya! Maybe I'll go make nice wit' Jericho's lady friend. She looked like she could keep a body safe from you monsters."

"She'd probably have to, considering her boyfriend's stock in trade," Gambit mused. "Don't come cryin' to me when he breaks out dat mojo stick o' his and turns you into a toad for making googly eyes at his girl."

The undercover Avengers took turns paying for each others drinks for a while, doing their part to raise funds for charity while enjoying a rare night off. Jericho, for all his seeming friendliness, wasn't kidding when he'd mentioned his social ineptitude; for such a renowned psychiatrist, he genuinely had a difficult time speaking to the living without sounding morbid. Miss Southern Belle, on the other hand, was in her element. In hardly any time at all, she'd effortlessly charmed the neighbors at their corner oasis and coaxed them into an entertaining discussion about the supernatural with the Unity Squad's witch doctor. She waited to excuse herself until he was deep in conversation with a Harvard-educated Cleopatra and wandered off to do reconnaissance.

So far, Rogue hadn't spied any cause for concern—namely the kind sporting unnatural red eyes and an ego the size of Texas. Matter of fact, even though the building seemed full to capacity, she hadn't noticed any unsavory characters other than a few sketchy, middle aged politicians. Buoyed by a sense of security, she was attempting to navigate her way past the dance floor when a heavily armored knight blocked her egress. Instantly reminded of the automated sentries she'd fought in Bagalia, her fists clenched.

"Finally, a woman with some class!" he proclaimed happily, his voice muffled somewhat by a slotted face guard. "There's sooo many Harley Quinns here. It's nice to see an actual lady!"

Whomever he was, he sounded young; probably a local Faire enthusiast who played World of Warcraft in his spare time and was too shy to talk to girls without a disguise—or a pocketful of Daddy's money. Her tense posture relaxed.

"Why, that's very kind of you."

"My pleasure, ma'am." He bowed so low he nearly topped over. "My name's Anton, but my friends call me Night Edge."

"People actually call you that in public?"

"Uh...s-sometimes...Could I interest you in a dance? It'd be my honor."

His stammering was kind of cute.

"How could Ah possibly turn down such a gallant offer, my lord?" Rogue conceded coquettishly, accepting his hand and trying not to snicker; she was going to have a field day with the reenactors if Wanda ever cashed in on the Renaissance festival agreement.

Sir Knight turned out to be a terrible dancer. But she managed to avoid his clumsy, metal plated boots and the broadsword swinging from his back, making it all the way through the Monster Mash and Thriller without getting swatted—unlike a poor, unfortunate zombie who ventured too close and earned himself a concussion. By time they'd tangled up a conga to Harry Belafonte's Jump In the Line, Rogue's stomach was cramping from laughing so hard. She curtseyed and attempted to escape before Anton could beg for another dance.

Suddenly, the house lights went dark. The unmistakable, soaring orchestral notes of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor rumbled forth, shaking the walls and floor with the bass of its pipe organ vibrations. An instant hush fell over the startled crowd as a single, red-tinted spotlight clacked to life. It cast its bloody glow on the second floor balcony, highlighting a trio of antique clocks from the bygone era of coffee trading. A solitary figure stood still as Death atop the highest point of the cornice, wrapped in a long, heavy cloak, all but a solemn chin hidden in the darkness of his hood. Clouds of machine-made fog billowed upwards.

As the musical introduction reached a crescendo and hung on a single, ominous note, thunderous pyrotechnics fired off around the perimeter of the ballroom, spewing columns of purple and orange sparks. He slung the cape from his shoulders and flung it out over the dance floor. It sizzled loudly as it flew through the air, disintegrating, raining ashy flakes on the stupefied audience.

"Good evening, friends!" The mystery man's clear voice rang out, bouncing from the classical columns and high, recessed ceiling with a joyous vivacity. He tipped his huntsman's cap and favored the crowd with a dashing grin. "Thank you all for coming! It warms my heart t' see so many of N'Awlins finest giving back to their community."

Down below, a young woman nudged Rogue's elbow and whispered, "Is that Green Arrow?"

The Mississippian mutant didn't answer. Her slack jawed, disbelieving gaze was riveted on the man dressed as King Richard's wayward crusader, who was acknowledging a businessman in the audience —apparently an owner of the building— to another round of clapping. Anton lifted his visor to get a better look at their host, confirming Rogue's basement-dweller theory; he was early twenties, tops, with a pasty, zit riddled complexion and dark, bushy eyebrows. He scowled at the girl, who just so happened to be dressed as the Joker's henchwoman.

"That's Robin Hood. Good lord. Get some culture beyond the latest fad, would'ja?" He denounced hotly.

"Of course," Rogue uttered, confounded; she was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to snatch her dance partner's steel helmet and test her pitching arm. "Of course he'd dress as the damned prince of thieves."

Harley wannabe became excited, hopping in place so intensely Rogue feared she might tear her already-ripped, 'Daddy's lil' monster' shirt in half. "You know him? I saw him earlier, talking to Willie Snead. He is smokin' hot!"

Gambit, for despite the deceptive eyemask there was no mistaking the Cajun X-Man's mesmerizing showmanship, had finished with his pleasantries. He threw his arms wide, palms uplifted in a grand gesture of invitation, and paced along the banister. His grandstanding elicited a gasp from those closest as they scattered out of the way, mistakenly expecting him to fall.

"Tonight, we've raised almos' twenty thousand to help so-called 'troublemaker' children. These kids have had a rough start t' life. They get lost in the system; too old for adoption, abused and misunderstood by foster homes who only care about collectin' a welfare check. Thanks to you, we can help them learn dat there's more to life than fear. I do b'lieve it's time for a costume contest to celebrate. But first, y'all want a trick... or treats?"

The crowd replied en masse, mostly shouting for the latter. Gambit unslung his flashy yew and onyx recurve bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver at his back. He ripped a section of the fletching out with his teeth and notched it with ease.

"How 'bout BOTH!" he shouted, drawing the string back as the spotlight re-centered on a mirrored disco ball high above the dance floor.

The arrow tip glowed pink momentarily before he released it in a perfectly curved parabola which would absolutely have raised Hawkeye's ire. The decoration exploded in a marvelous display of tiny, repeating fireworks, showering onlookers far and wide with candy and rainbow confetti. Cries of glee broke out as the costumed revelers chased trinkets, mini Snickers and Butterfingers like they'd been starving for days.

All except one.

As the master of disaster slipped the bow over his shoulder and proudly surveyed the mess he'd caused, the face of a fox stood out against the crowd. He recognized Doctor Voodoo's guest by her medieval outfit, a rarity in an evening of revealing burlesque dresses and sexualized costumes.

She seemed to stare right through him, oblivious to the tornado of bodies in motion around her. His brow crinkled in consternation: There was a familiarity to her pose he couldn't quite place. The demanding tilt of her head, a fist on a cockily thrust hip, and—damn. Emil wasn't kidding about those...accoutrements. Her bold smile spread and she cheekily scratched the slender snout of her mask with an upraised middle finger.

The infamous thief's breath caught in his throat.

"EMIL!" Gambit barked to the thieves hidden in the shadow of the narrow hall behind him, never taking his eyes from the woman in the mask as she spun in a whirl of violet and cream skirts and headed for the garden exit. "Dat woman who came wit' Voodoo. What was her name?"

Lapin looked up from his finger sandwich, confused and concerned by the urgent tone in Remy's voice. "Who, Maid Marian?"

"Yah. Did it ever occur t' you dat she might be one o' his teammates?"

"Say what?!" Claude bristled, peering at the main floor through a crack in the blinds.

Mercy weaseled under Claude's elbow, excitedly checking the scene as well. "What're you goin' on about, Remy? Did Jer bring Black Widow? I always wanted to meet her!"

"This is a legit affair, dere ain't no reason for de Avengers t' be here," Emil groused.

Gambit looked back at his brother in arms at last, his narrowed, crimson eyes sparkling in the shadow beneath the pointed brim of his hat, a smirk of the utmost wickedness upon his lips.

"Unless her boyfriend didn't know about her history wit' us. Or me."

In the decades since Jean Luc LeBeau brought home a raggedy street urchin and instructed everyone to treat the boy as family, Emil had only ever known two women capable of bringing out Remy LeBeau's mischievous side so quickly. One would just as soon kill the man as look at him, and the other...

Dark blue eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up as comprehension dawned.

"Non. No way! Are you sure?!"

"Sure as the sun sets in the west, mon ami. I'd know her anywhere."

Emil was inconsolable; he slapped a hand over his eyes, cackling so hard he choked on his unchewed mouthful and grabbed Claude's sleeve for support.

"And you two couyeons wore matchin' outfits wit'out even trying!" he screeched uproariously once he'd swallowed the offending lump. "AHHH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Bon Dieu, oh, ohhh, my sides are gon' split!"

"I don't get it, what's so funny?" Their ninja guest asked, glancing back and forth between Remy and Lapin.

"I'll explain later, jolie fille. Right now I gotta go say hi to my..." he paused, his lips twitching with mirth, "—to an old friend. Mercy, you're in charge. Hold down the fort."

Gambit leapt from the balustrade, graceful as a deer, flexible spine arching as he twisted into a backwards flip. Onlookers gasped when the lithe figure dropped into their midst, landing so effortlessly one would think he jumped off a footstool instead of a second floor balcony.

Almost immediately he realized he should've taken a stealthier approach. Friends and patrons alike crowded around, clapping him on the shoulders, shaking his hand...impeding his hunt.

There was no getting around them: As the face of the Fagan Foundation, he was obligated to make nice and raise money for the foster kids to find loving homes— like his father had once done for him.

Y'all got the Marian reference, right? Marian Carlyle: Ultimates Rogue!