Jacob Gavin Jr. closed the door of the office behind him firmly, breathing a sigh of relief timed with the action. He stood there for a moment, sweaty palm still on the doorknob, recollecting the scattered pieces of himself, before he pushed off and walked down the hall, a calm, business-like mask covering his face. The stride was swift and clipped, practiced to exude a sense of authority and confidence. It was all part of the disguise of course.

Jake was far from confident or calm at the moment.

He was in fact, quite unsure and afraid.

Nodding at the occasional passing white collar as he made his way through the office building¡¦s corridor, he tried to reach the elevator as quickly as he could without looking like he was in a rush. Faces passed him, polite but not caring, having no idea of the monster that worked among them, living their routine, mundane lives with no idea of the hands that passed behind the scenes.

But he knew. He always knew. It was the price of being a messenger.

Jake had grown up a rich boy, supported by the crime that surrounded his world. Born into a life where everyone was two faced, hiding ulterior motives behind supposedly benign intents so that when his mutant shape shifting power manifested itself, it only seemed a natural adaptation to his environment. His parents had money, and more importantly connections, to everybody from the Mafia to the petty mercenaries moving stolen goods on the streets, so he was saved from the brunt of the deception and usage that might have been directed at him. Somehow, that had never really made him feel safer.

He could have gone legitimate, could have escaped that world of fun-house mirrors. His parents had a respectable front, making a large portion of their money from good honest work, but they couldn¡¦t watch over him forever and there was always the worry that some enemy of his parents might go after him for vengeance.

His parents had a lot of enemies.

So in the end, he had really had no choice. The cops were corrupt, and what was he going to do anyway? Walk up to a blue uniformed man directing traffic and say "Hey, Mr. Officer, um, could you help me? My parents are into the crime world and I¡¦m worried one of their competitors will come after me. Do you think you can help me with that?" Yeah, that would go over well.

The only people who could protect him were more criminals, ones that would make sure to protect their employees. As long as he did his job as Courier, he had a certain amount of insurance, and a certain amount of comfort.

It wasn¡¦t much, but it was something.

A pretty blond with short hair and a conservative dark blue suit smiled at him in a manner a little too friendly for a casual greeting. He smiled back, almost forgetting to return the flirtatious look in his distraction. Girls usually found him cute, in a boyish way, and he usually played off of that, winking easily and enjoying the attention. But never, ever, letting it get too personal. He¡¦d already been dragged into this life. He wouldn¡¦t drag someone else in with him.

Not that he regretted who he was. Everybody dreamed of being something else, but where others angsted over what they couldn¡¦t be, he accepted it. He was what he was, which was a pretty broad statement considering that he could change his form to be whatever he wanted. It was quite a fun power to play around with, and quite useful.

But right now, he wasn¡¦t particularly at ease with his job. There was always some anxiety, a basic proponent of his nature. Now there was all out terror. He stuck his hands in his pant pockets, wiping the sweat off of them on the rich fabric.

The elevator was full, teeming with resentfully patient employees trapping copies of the New York Times under their arms and muttering trivial conversation to each other. Jake stepped in, the last to make it, pressed against a large man with thick glasses and an obviously forgetful nature when it came to wearing deodorant.

As if the city didn¡¦t smell bad enough already.

It wasn¡¦t until Jake was walking out of the skyscraper into the shadows of 40-story buildings that he relaxed even a degree.

New Son. He had been just another crime boss until recently, nothing too exciting. A lot of the bosses had nicknames and his had come simply because he was the newest son of a formerly successful, and deceased crime lord, to take over the business. The other three elder siblings had all died of tragic and "unfortunate accidents". Nothing surprising there. Same story Jake had heard plenty of times before. Of course, this guy knew what he was doing, which was why Jake had chosen him as an employer, and which was why he hadn¡¦t yet followed in the footsteps of his brothers six feet under. New Son had had his eye on Gambit for a long time, seeing the "Master Thief" title as quite a valuable asset if he could control it. Obviously, New Son had figured out how to.

Jake shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen up the tight muscles there and walking down the street to the avenue where he knew he¡¦d find an abundant resource of Cabbies.

New Son had been just another crime boss--¡¦had¡¦ being the operative word in that sentence. Because, since New Son had left for his vacation to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, there had been marked changes in his personality¡¦and dealings. Strange requests for strange jobs had come¡¦ Suddenly, there was a deep interest in all mutants in the New York area, or in the lives of little children up in Michigan who would suddenly disappear soon afterwards under mysterious circumstances. Quick, to the point telephone conversations, more so than usual, the desperate, hungry voice on the other line commanding him to do its bidding, almost not sounding human.

Probably because it wasn¡¦t human. Not anymore. Jacob Gavin Jr. was not sure exactly how, but the man he had just had a meeting with was not the man that had hired him.

That man had never been psychic.

Jake had never really had access to the psionic plane, but he had made sure to hire very¡¦ talented and skilled specialists to put safeguards up in his mind that would keep most intruders from going very deep into it. He¡¦d paid big money for that little enhancement which had done its job so far, and as a result, he was met with a kind of pins-and-needles tingling in his forehead whenever those safeguards were being triggered.

He had a headache now from all the tingling that had been going on in that office, New Son sitting with a blank expression and speaking with a cold voice from behind the expensive desk, completely empty of papers and evidence of work. It was all wrong. The man was all wrong.

And his interest in the Mutant Registration Bill felt wrong too. Oh, the cover story was clean, shiny, and spotless with a lemon-fresh scent. Politician in debt trades his political leverage for much needed monetary value. But that¡¦s all it was¡¦a cover story. It wasn¡¦t right. What did New Son care about Mutant Registration? And did it have something to do with him suddenly being a mutant? For some reason, the monster he¡¦d just met didn¡¦t seem to be the type to care about mutant rights, even if he was one.

Jake reached the corner and waved down the next cab to pass. Of course, that one was full, as were the next two, and finally, on his forth try he got one to pull over, driven by a tan-skinned man with decent English.

"Westchester County," Jake said calmly, "will you go that far?"

The fare ended up getting doubled for such a lengthy trip, but Jake simply nodded and leaned back in the vinyl seat, sighing deeply. He patted the envelope with the floppy disk inside that sat securely in his inside breast pocket and wondered why New Son insisted on such archaic storage for this particular transaction, when a CD would last much longer and be much more convenient. Maybe that was the point, he realized suddenly.

He wasn¡¦t sure. Wasn¡¦t sure of much right now. All he knew was that his job was to pay Remy another visit. Hopefully he could figure a little more out between here and 1407 Graymalken Lane.