FOR THE RECORD: This is a fanfiction based on a fast and loose combination of MARVEL's various X-Universes, mainly X-Men: Evolution. For those of you who actually know Gambit's early history, with the Tithing, child slave trading, Weapon X-ing, and inter-Guild marrying…eh-eh, no. This is also my official entry into M-rated material. I am a writer, not a moviemaker, so I don't need to hand you a laundry list of offensive, violent, and/or sexual acts that happen in this story. I merely kindly suggest that you hold onto your seats.
Devil's Deal
—Part I—
The most dangerous wolves wore sheep's clothing.
Jean-Luc LeBeau preferred to wear sweats, to tell the truth, but the situation called for an Armani. At the moment, he desperately wanted Kevlar and, God knew why, a very big sword. Instead, he had the Armani and a fragile wine glass that was only a threat to expensive carpet. Absently, he mimed another sip from it. The liquid didn't even touch his lips. He wouldn't swallow a drop while he was standing three feet from Marius Boudreaux, Patriarch of the Assassin's Guild.
It was unlikely that it could be poisoned. He just wouldn't chance being even the slightest bit intoxicated in the older gentleman's presence.
Gentleman.
He almost laughed. They were gentlemen now. After years of circling and posturing and lunging at each other's throats, they were gentlemen. How absurd.
What was worse, they were having an actual civilized conversation. They talked about D.C.'s newest jingoist policies, and they both agreed that the warmongers in office should be shot. The only question was whether it would be an Assassin's bullet of a Thief's. Shootings were more up Marius's alley, but Jean-Luc had a personal vendetta against the government. Homeland Security was combing every corner of the nation in search of his little boy. New Orleans was under a microscope. Gambit hadn't dared to show his face there for a long time. Jean-Luc missed seeing those red eyes flash.
Jean-Luc turned and watched Marius's youngest granddaughter dance. The girl was home on spring break away from an anonymous college where she was pursuing an obscure degree. There was a carefree openness in her face. Looking at her, Jean-Luc thought she couldn't possibly know that her family's business had the monopoly on hired killings. That, or that college of hers had damn good acting classes.
The man she danced with was blonde and blue-eyed, with a slim, muscular frame like a fresh green twig: strong and flexible—until a stronger hand snapped it. He made a good dancer. He made a good company figurehead.
Jean-Luc was thankful for that. He had slunk through the shadows all his life; the Guild's decision to disguise itself as philanthropic business conglomerate had left him completely in the dark. He barely understood what a conglomerate even was—and philanthropic? That was a laugh. He was glad to leave all that nonsense to the blonde dancer. Let the young pup bask in the sun and fool the adoring crowds into thinking wolves were innocent, so long as the old alpha male back in the shadows was still the leader of the pack.
The young man's gaze met Jean-Luc's for a moment. His bright blue eyes were so like a doll's, glassy and masterfully crafted by a loving hand. They glinted with mischief and a bit of respect. The mischief was always there, but the respect was rare and—Jean-Luc knew—hard won. Years of effort had earned him only the barest twinkling of it in a blue eye.
Their gazes split, and Jean-Luc put his full attention back on Marius. The young man continued to dance across the floor with Belladonna Boudreaux. Who the girl was or who she would become was uncertain. Her innocent smile could be a deception. If that were the case, then she wouldn't be alone. Her dance partner was also a wolf in sheep's clothing. A demon with doll's eyes.
Etienne LeBeau.
XXX
The high-rise's ballroom had a fourth wall made completely of glass. The floor stretched out another thirty feet beyond it to form a balcony that overlooked the city lights and their reflected glow on the bay. Etienne leaned heavily on the thick marble railing. He sighed at the view. The city's face had changed after its ill-fated rendezvous with Mademoiselle Katrina. Now, so many years later, its soul was hidden behind a façade of shiny, corporate prosperity. He wondered if the soul had changed as well.
The thought preoccupied him as the crimson sun drowned in the bay and the red glow that lit the right side of his face dimmed. Then it suddenly went dark.
He turned to find a gentleman standing beside him, blocking the light. The man was an old one but still as straight-backed as any youth. Powerful muscles coiled under his slackening skin. His silver-white hair was thick and wild, yet tamed for the moment. He looked both out of place and imposing in his tailored suit, and, though his cold blue eyes stared straight ahead at the bay, Etienne felt them boring through his skin.
For someone made up of so many contradictions, the man looked real enough.
Still, Etienne prayed for it to only be a stray nightmare. A strong hand came down on his shoulder. He stiffened but forced himself to eye the hand askance, pick it off of him, and ask, "Who th' Hell are you?"
"Erik Lensherr, for the moment." The man kept a straight face as he studied the bay. "You're very good," he confided. "Even though I knew it had to be you, I couldn't be sure until just now."
"What're you—"
Two steely blue eyes struck, and he recoiled. The man smiled at the reaction he had received. "It's you."
XXX
Lensherr's voice was so certain, there was no refuting it. Etienne looked away. "Why're you here?" he asked.
"When I revealed that I was still alive, Colossus came rushing off a plane onto American soil within hours, and Pyro was on his knees, begging to be taken back, but the Gambit"—he turned and eyed Etienne coldly—"hid. Never trust a thief."
"I'm not a thief," the younger man replied with venom. "Haven' you heard? Changed professions. I'm a businessman now."
Lensherr laughed darkly. "Is there a difference?"
"Probably not," he sighed. "What d'you want…Lensherr, is it? If y' hadn't noticed, I'm no foot solider anymo'."
"You never were, Remy."
"Don't call me that," he snapped.
As if to a child, Lensherr explained, "It's your name."
"So is Etienne. It's Remy Etienne LeBeau, but Remy…that name's dead now. You killed it." He closed his eyes. "Why're you here? I'm not going to see the errors of my ways an' leave everything to go away with you, if that's what you're thinking."
Lensherr turned to look through the glass wall at the restrained party going on within. "Is there anything to leave?" he asked softly. "That ragged man in the suit who looks like a mercenary penguin—Jean-Luc? Don't you remember what he did to you? And Henri, that blonde cherub wreathed with fake smiles? Remind me, what exactly did he say when you fell into his arms, crying? 'Get away from me, you...freak'?"
Etienne glared out at the bay. "Demon," he corrected.
"Demon," Lensherr agreed with a nod, having known the right word all along. "Why would you stay with people like that? Are they even worth the air they breathe?"
"They're my family."
"Family? Isn't this the same family that threw you away? Remy,"—he repeated the name in a steely voice—"Remy, don't you see? They only wanted you back because they realized you were useful to them."
"And you're any different?"
Lensherr frowned. "I've always known your worth."
"Exploited every penny," Etienne muttered through gritted teeth.
XXX
Inside, Belladonna Boudreaux looked down sharply as her silverware rattled. Many people who had been enjoying the catered dinner did the same.
Henri LeBeau sensed the disturbance in the crowd and turned to see his brother out on the balcony, agitated and shrinking away from a livid older man. His fingers twitched. He was a LeBeau. He protected his own. He was also part of a Guild. Secrecy came first.
There was a dais set up at the side of the room. Henri all but vaulted up onto it. He commandeered the podium with equal parts charismatic grace and horrified desperation. The shiny black button at the base of the microphone was small and simplistic, so innocent looking. He pressed it, and the wall of glass went black, hiding Etienne and the unwanted visitor from view. An appreciative gasp rose from the assemblage as Henri's image appeared on the darkened glass. He cleared his throat, met his father's inquiring look, and began, "This is a proud day for my brother, Etienne. Unfortunately, to his sincere regret, he had some business come up and can't be the one to greet you all."
He looked towards his projected image, behind which his brother stood frightened and alone. His lips thinned. "My name is Henri LeBeau," he said. "I've never understood my brother. Not many people do. You look in his eyes—and you know he sees the world differently. My brother's a brilliant strategist. Good bluffer, too. Never play poker with him if you value your life." As he waited for the laughter to die, his eyes flitted between his father and a door to the balcony. He almost sagged in relief when Jean-Luc tensed and pulled aside an oddly muscular server.
Quiet returned, and Henri smiled. "Etienne, he has this ability to bring about change. He took our family's—company—and he turned it into the success it is today, but that wasn't enough for him.
"My brother has a big heart. I wasn't surprised when he told me he wanted to give to charity. It was a bit of shock, though, to learn he was planning to use massive amounts of corporate funds to do it. And I don't know how, but he talked the Company into it…but then, he's always been able to con our father into anything…
XXX
"Today, the LeBeau Corporation is launching a charitable organization called the Guild, which actively seeks out, aids, and educates talented children in at-risk situations."
Lensherr had grown quiet, listening to Henri's speech as it came out through a hidden speaker. "Talented? At risk?" he repeated, amused. "The boy's talking about mutants—a tax deductible charity that protects and trains the same mutants the government oppresses. Your idea?"
Etienne said nothing.
"Clever boy. I need you for ideas like that," Lensherr pressed. "The Brotherhood can fight, and it will win. But I don't want to destroy the nation in the process. Why should I, when you can trick America into giving itself to me on a silver platter?"
Etienne said nothing.
"Come with me."
The LeBeau son turned from the hand that stretched towards him. A single word ran through his head ten thousand times before he managed to break his silence. "Never."
He gasped as his watch hurled itself and him into Lensherr's waiting hand. The hand closed over his wrist. Wide-eyed, he grabbed the old man's clothes and snarled, "Let go of me!" The silk shirt started to glow red.
Lensherr's other hand latched over his, forcing him to keep contact with the now-explosive material. The man's eyes went hard. "No."
Etienne tensed to lash out with his legs, but his feet were savagely kicked out from under him. His left temple crashed into the railing, once, twice, and after that he lost count. It stopped sometime after he had gone completely limp. Only Lensherr's hold on his hand and wrist held him aloft with his head bowed at the man's belt. His feet were four, maybe five feet above the balcony's floor. Lensherr continued to rise into the air, standing on a large metal disk he had summoned.
Buried deep beneath haze of pain and drifting consciousness, Etienne's training screamed for him to fight. He still had his legs—his head, if it came down to tooth and nail—but a tiny, insidious voice at the back of his aching brain whispered that it was no use.
It was the voice of experience. Too late, he recalled how the mutant patriarch dealt with disobedience. His body remembered. It had never forgotten. And, for him, it had given up all resistance. Against his will, his body began to play the part of an inanimate object. His mind rebelled, but it was fighting a losing battle—with itself. Maybe he was a toy, the voice supposed, meant to be dropped and picked up again at will, meant to be played with. Maybe he was just a possession. After all, when in his life had he not been?
Too dazed to fight back, he could only blink with glassy eyes as the Devil took back his own.
XXX
The bullet came from a silenced gun. It punched through Lensherr's right shoulder, one of the few places not shielded by the limp body of his captive. The pain didn't make him let go of the young man. On the contrary,
Etienne gasped as the grip on both his hand and wrist tightened impossibly. Lensherr snarled at the waiters with handguns who were spreading themselves out along the balcony.
The metal disk he stood on shifted back several feet. Etienne slid over the railing to hang hundreds of feet from the ground in the night air.
If the old man let go…
The thought crossed the mind of every gunman, and they adjusted their grips. From shoot to kill to release the hostage in milliseconds. Seeing this, Lensherr said one contemptuous word: "Guns." The firearms flew from their hands, turned, and took aim at their owners' vital organs.
Etienne's face saddened as he heard the weapons cock, knowing full well what would happen next. But this time, it wouldn't be anonymous soldiers; it would be LeBeau men. Men who would die for him. Men he was responsible for. And what could he do to stop it?
"I'll never be part of your Brotherhood again," he declared.
Lensherr hauled him up by his wrist like a limp rag doll. Etienne jerked his chin up with a glare and twisted, fighting to get a foothold on the metal disk. He was told, "If you're bargaining for their lives, you're doing a horrible job of it."
He found his footing and straightened. They were of a height, though Lensherr could snap him in two. Despite his head injury, he met Lensherr's eyes squarely. If his voice shuddered and his fear was all too obvious, at least he had found something worthwhile to stand up for. "I'm not your pawn," he said, ignoring the grip that threatened to break his wrist. Softer, he added, "But I'm not your enemy."
The dangerous red glow of Lensherr's shirt lit up the old man's look of contempt.
"Yet," Etienne qualified. "You kill my men, an' I will be. I'll become an X-Man."
He got the reaction he had expected. His wrist felt like it might snap. "You wouldn't live long enough!" Lensherr snarled.
"I'm no use t'you dead," he countered and almost smiled when his captor's eyes flashed, knowing he had won the point. "I'm neutral right now, Lensherr. I broke all my contacts with the X-Men when I went underground. I don't help them; I don't hurt you. I'll join you when Hell pays Earth a visit, but I won't join the X-Men unless you do somethin' stupid.
"Think, Lensherr. Where am I more useful t'you? Here, keepin' Uncle Sam from enslaving mutants? Or wit' you, trussed up in some cell, because that's the only way you can keep me from killin' you?" He let the volatile energy flow out of Lensherr's shirt and back into his fingertips. "Your choice."
Lensherr's eyes blazed.
Etienne met his gaze with two unnaturally blue eyes, eyes too beautiful to be real. No hate. No fear. Doll's eyes.
Fakes.
Lensherr threw him back onto the balcony. He grunted as he smashed into the stone tiles but managed to stand on his own. As he turned to face his childhood nightmare, the silenced guns veered away from his men to aim themselves at him. He swept out his arms in welcome, but said again, "I'm no use t'you dead."
The guns fired.
Etienne LeBeau crumpled to the ground.
—To Be Continued—
