"Emil? Emil can you hear me?" Zoe's voice filtered through Emil's sleepy brain. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and tried to wake up. When his eyes focused, he looked at the clock on the nightstand. It read 1:47 a.m. Emil groaned softly. He wasn't happy to be woken up. Then the little black walkie-talkie beside the clock started making noise again.

"Emil?" Zoe was a little more persistent. "Hey wake up, would you? I know it's late, but I need you to come here."

Emil snatched up the walkie-talkie. "Zoe…oh man…sorry. I'm on my way."

Less than a minute later, Emil went into Zoe's room. She smiled weakly at him. "You don't have to apologize, Emil. I'm the one who woke you up. But I have a little problem."

Emil sat down on the bed beside her. "What? What can I do? Jus' name it."

Zoe looked away. "It's kind of embarrassing…"

"Zoe, you're sick wit' de flu, you shouldn' be embarrassed 'bout anyt'ing." Emil told her gently, taking the cloth he had brought in earlier and wiping her forehead with it.

"Well…I…um…I have to go to the bathroom. And I can't make it there by myself. I tried, but my legs just give out under me." Zoe admitted.

"Pshaw, is dat all?" Emil scoffed quietly. "C'mere, sit up."

Zoe, blushing slightly, did as she was told. Emil lifted her up into his arms and carried her out of the room, down the hall and into the bathroom. He set her down on the side of the bathtub, which was next to the toilet and gave her a wry grin.

"You t'ink you can make it from dere to dere an' back? 'Cause I ain' stayin' in here."

Zoe chuckled. "Now who's embarrassed? Yeah, I'll be fine. Thank you."

"Lemme know when you're done, I'll be jus' outside de door." Emil replied. "An' don' be t'anking me, right now, helpin' you is part of my job description. I don' mind."

Back in Zoe's room a few minutes later, Emil sat down on her desk chair and watched as she got comfortable in bed again. "You felt a little warm." He commented.

"I am warm."

Emil got up and took the thermometer off her beside table. He shook it down and then held it out to her. "Open up," he commanded. Zoe obediently put the thermometer under her tongue and Emil kept time on his watch the way Tante Mattie had showed him. When the correct amount of time had passed, he took the thermometer out of her mouth and examined it.

He studied it for a few seconds before scratching his head and looking at Zoe. "You have any idea how to read dese t'ings?"

"Here," Zoe replied, reaching for it. After looking at it, turning it around in her fingers, she showed him. "A hundred and one point two."

Emil nodded and stood up. "Dat calls for a couple of Advil, doesn' it? An' maybe a popsicle or some orange juice?"

"I'd love some orange juice…do we have ice?"

"Oui, I t'ink we do. One o.j. wit' ice and two Advil comin' up. I'll be right back." Emil winked at her as he headed out.

Emil returned a few minutes later and handed her the Advil first and then the glass of juice, complete with ice. After Zoe took the pills and put the glass on the table, she leaned back on her pillows with her eyes closed.

"My eyes hurt." She complained.

Emil took the washcloth and went to the bathroom. He ran it under cold water for a few seconds and rung it out, taking it back to the bedroom with him. He gently wiped her forehead and face with the cool cloth.

"That feels good." Zoe sighed. "I hate being sick."

"So doesn' everyone." Emil replied. He had to admit he wasn't entirely comfortable with his new position as caregiver. Six members of the New Orleans Unified Guilds were thieves. Of those six, five of them were direct descendants of original members of the Thieves Guild. And Emil was the youngest of those five descendants. He was usually the one who was taken care of, even now. But Zoe was younger than him, and it was his job to look after her when the others weren't there, so there he was.

Zoe fell asleep very quickly and Emil decided to follow her example. He left the room and went back to his own, settling back into bed and closing his own eyes.

The next morning, Emil was woken up by the sound of birds chirping outside his bedroom window. It was only six-thirty-eight a.m. Emil rolled his eyes and cursed at the feathered creatures, wishing he had Questa's gun.

Sighing, he threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. He pulled on his slippers and bathrobe and headed to see if Zoe was awake yet.

He peeked into Zoe's room and saw that his friend was still sleeping, so he left her alone and went downstairs to make some breakfast. When he entered the kitchen, Emil realized that something was very, very wrong.

The assassins weren't exactly the neatest people on the planet, Emil knew, but they would never normally leave the kitchen in such a state of disarray, especially not this early in the morning. Emil decided to go in search of the people who had made such a mess in the kitchen and make them clean it up. He certainly wasn't going to do it.

Emil found himself following a trail of cereal through the downstairs part of the safehouse, wondering why he hadn't noticed it when he came down in the first place. The trail led to the living room and when Emil got there, he stopped in his tracks and almost passed out.

Seated on the floor around the coffee table, bowls of cereal in front of them, were Bella Donna, Gris-Gris, Fifolet, Singer and Questa. Or so Emil hoped. It looked like them, sort of. Well, actually, it looked like pint-sized versions of them. Like they had been turned into…children.

"Oh mon Dieu…" Emil breathed, leaning on the doorjamb.

The five children looked at him, contempt on their young faces. "What're you lookin' at?" Gris-Gris demanded, standing and facing Emil with his hands on his hips. Emil actually found himself struggling not to laugh as he looked at the boy. He felt a twinge of satisfaction that he now towered over Gris, a man who normally towered over him.

"I'm lookin' at you…" Emil replied, wondering just what he had done in a previous life to deserve to have this thrown at him when he really didn't need it.

Fifolet shook out his long dark hair and joined Gris in front of Emil. "Yeah, well, stop it."

Emil almost lost it. He couldn't believe they were still acting the same way they did as adults. It was hilarious. "Excuse me?" he choked out.

It was Questa's turn to speak. He joined his two friends, pulling out the gun he always carried as an adult. "If you don' stop…" he warned, pointing it at Emil.

Emil's eyes widened and he knew he had to take control of the situation before it got out of hand. The three boys in front of him were no more than ten years old. With Zoe out of commission upstairs and the others gone, Emil was the adult in charge of the house. The irony was not lost on him.

"Non, non, non…" he said, shaking his head. "I don' care who you are as adults. I don' care if you remember dis experience later an' get mad at me for it. I'm in charge. Not you." He reached over and plucked the gun out of Questa's hands. "And you will get dis back when you grow up again."

Questa pouted and crossed his arms across his chest. "It's my gun."

Emil raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, it is. When you're an adult. Now go finish your breakfast. When you're done, I want you all to go clean up de mess you made in de kitchen."

Five young faces looked defiantly at Emil. "Non."

Emil sighed. 'Dis is gon' be one hell of a long week…' he thought. Out loud, he said, "Why not?"

Bella Donna glared at him. "B'cause we don' want to an' you can' make us."

Emil decided to take the challenge. "Oh really? Well, den, you have a choice. You can clean up de mess you made, or you can spend de rest of de mornin' in your bedrooms wit' no television an' no music. It's up to you. You have thirty seconds to tell me what you decide."

"Non." Bella Donna told him. "You aren' our father, you can' tell us what to do. We don' have to do what you say."

"So you're not gon' clean up de mess?"

"Dat's right. You gotta problem wit' dat?" Gris wanted to know.

"As a matter of fact, oui, I do." Emil replied, his voice and face stony serious. "March."

"Come again?" Singer asked, confused.

"You heard me, Singer. All of you, upstairs. Now." Emil commanded.

"You can' keep us in our rooms." Fifolet protested.

"Wanna bet?" Emil asked, marching the five children up the stairs, pausing for a brief second to get some rope. Very thick rope. He put the five child assassins in their rooms and locked them in by tying all the doors together very tightly. They couldn't get out if they tried. They put up a fight and he knew he'd have a few bruises in awhile, but he did win. He hid the gun under the mattress in his bedroom, and then went to wake up Zoe.

When Zoe heard what was going on, she laughed. "Oh Emil, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be laughing. But I can't help you, except…I think you better get Remy down here. You're not going to be able to handle all five of them on your own for the rest of the week."

"Oui…"

Emil headed downstairs to use the phone. On his way down the upstairs hall, he heard the five young people shouting from their bedrooms and trying to open their doors. He knew they were angry with him, but he couldn't help laughing and being annoyed at the same time. "Oh read a book!" he yelled at them.

"No!" they all yelled back. They sounded very upset. Emil decided then and there not to let them out until Remy was there. He had a feeling they could kill him, even though they were children.

Emil dialed the number to the Xavier School with slightly shaking fingers and waited for someone to answer.

"Good morning, Xavier's School." A charming voice answered.

"Uh…bonjour…is Remy dere?" Emil replied.

"Yes, he is. May I ask who is calling, please?" the voice replied.

"…Tell 'im it's Red. He'll know who you mean. An' tell 'im it's really important."

"Okay, I will. Please wait for a moment while I get him for you."

"T'anks."

Two minutes later, Emil heard Remy's voice on the other end of the phone. "Emil? What is it? What's happened?" Remy was the patriarch of the newly unified guilds, and he continually worried that the peace would so tits-up while he was in New York with the X-Men.

"Help…" Emil squeaked in a small voice.

"Emil? Help? Help why? Tell me!" Remy demanded.

"Rem, you need to get down here, like, now." Emil told him. "Tante Mattie an' de others are off doin' somet'ing, I can' get 'hold of dem. I'm here wit' Zoe 'cause she has de flu. Dat's why we didn' go wit' dem. An' someway, somehow someone turned de assassins into ten-year-olds!"

"What?" Remy exclaimed.

"I'm not kiddin', mon ami, I wish to God I was. I've confiscated Questa's gun an' locked 'em all in deir rooms, mais I can' keep dem trapped all week, an' Tante an' de others aren' due back for six days…help!"

"Okay, Emil relax. I'm on my way. Keep dem locked up until I get dere. We'll figure somet'ing out." Remy said. "Dere has to be a logical reason for dis…"

"I sure as hell hope so…hurry Remy. I can hear 'em yellin' from here."

Emil hung up the phone and waited. Even with Remy there, he knew the next six days were not going to be easy ones. He just hoped they were up for the task. And he wished Tante Mattie were there. She was much better at handling children than he was. Hell, compared to her and half the guild, he was still a kid himself. So was Remy. It was going to certifiably be a long week…

CHAPTER THREE

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