From Yesterday (Young Justice/ X-Men Evolution Fiction)

Chapter Five

"Don't you get no idea 'bout runnin' away. You got nowhere to go. You git tired 'uh runnin' soon, kid, an' Gambit be tired 'uh chasin' yo ass."

The man's accent is thick, French or Creole, but his phrasing is all bayou: Louisiana.

"Then stop chasing me!' Pietro's voice quivers and his thin hands clasp my arm. He's so close to me I smell his fear. He hugs me tight, putting his lips to my ear. In Sinte, he whispers, "Thank you for today. You did real good for yourself. Don't mess it up."

"Tro, who is th...?"

He's gone. He vanished. I stand, staring at the place Pietro was. A light breeze rustles my hair and sweeps a few dollar bills left as tips on tables onto the floor. I can't help turning around in a circle like an idiot, looking for him though I know I'm not gonna find him. A few people looking in my direction are blinking and shaking their heads in astonishment.

Pietro pulled a Flash. My cousin's a meta... or a mutant... what did that guy just call him—Quicksilver.

French curses make me look back to the red-eyed man. He's wearing a long brown trench coat over all black clothing. He's got a moderate build and he moves like he's packing. I ready myself for a fight if he wants to give me one. I can't go all out and fight like Robin, but I don't have to let this guy get away either.

The man pulls a cigarette from his top pocket and slips it between his lips. His eyes glow like hot coals as they bore into mine. He leans close, bringing the scent of leather and sweat with him. I wonder if he thinks he's scaring me. "Careful how you pick yo company, kid."

I grip his collar and his weird eyes widen. "Why are you after him?"

"He yo frien', why you no ask him?" Red Eyes takes my hands off his collar. "Ain't you s'posed to be in school? You betta' run home or Gambit call yo parents. If you got 'em." Red Eyes touches the end of his cigarette and the butt begins to smoke. "If you see Maximoff agin give ol' Gambit a call."

I feel it because I'm trained by the best and I catch his wrist before he tucks whatever it is he has into my jacket pocket. Red-Eyes nearly bites through his cigarette and glares, then barks out a laugh.

"You take this number, no. It help you and yo frien' in de long run."

I snatch the playing card out of his hand. Ace of Spades, and there's a phone number with a Washington DC area code scrawled in the white spaces in red ink. "You a meta?" I ask him.

Red Eyes smirks at me. "Why you no ask yo frien' wha' he is. Then you know."

A growl is building in my chest at this guy's flippant attitude. Yeah, I'm short, skinny, and packing nothing but a backpack full of clothes and a karaoke CD, but dammit I'm dangerous and demand to be treated with respect.

"You..."

"Is there a problem here?"

I turn at the clunky steps of a man in a dress shirt and tie walking up to me and Red Eyes. Must be the manager, he's the only person obviously working in this place who's not wearing a t-shirt that says: ¡Hola! Ask me about our specials!

"This guy..." I start to say, but stop. The warmth of Red Eyes's body standing near me is gone as is his scent. I don't need to look behind me to know that he's gone, and that growl I was working on comes out.

Dammit! Stupid rookie mistake. I ignore the manager who's saying something like he's gonna call the police about truants and storm through the doors of the Mexican restaurant, scowling down the streets moderately crowded with tourists and college kids but no red-eyed Cajun in a trench coat.