Remy LeBeau couldn't help but smile. He was going to be rich at the end of this hand, and he wouldn't even need to use the Ace of hearts he had hidden up his shirt sleeve. Remy's peculiar eyes were hidden as always, behind a small pair of glasses with darkly tinted lenses. Before he had ever come across such a thing he had learned to stay away from the big towns, but after gaining the eye-wear from a savage looking to trade nothing could keep him out of the gambling dens.
As big towns went, Marvel was the biggest. Marvel City was the technical name, painted in big blocky letters in black paint on the two wooden signs at either end of the main street that stretched through the center of town. The road was dirt and the buildings were mostly wood, but city wasn't too far off. Of course Remy had grown up New Orleans, and that was a real city, with brick and stone and class, but the wild west as people called it had spoken to him, and he had gone.
That had been three years ago, when he was fourteen. Two years spent on the outskirts of the wild, stealing what he needed to survive, and one year behind those lenses so no one knew him for the abomination he was. Not that much changed since he was able to walk among the normal people, he just had more opportunities to thieve.
But when he could take a man's money fair and square? That was what Remy lived for, and there was no one better to take from in Marvel than the man sitting across from him. He was almost exactly Remy's opposite. Where the Cajun thief was handsome this man was ugly. Where Remy was thin, he was morbidly fat. Remy had long brown hair which fell to his shoulders, the fat man had a bald head which seemed to gleam in the hot midday sun and the cool night moon alike.
Wilson Fisk was his name, but everyone in town called him Kingpin. And for good reason. There were a number of rich men in Marvel. Tony Stark was the heir to Stark Railroad, with a large mansion overlooking the city proper on a high rocky outcrop which stretched up toward the heavens. Norman Osborn owned the biggest and best whorehouse in Marvel, Texas, along with a factory a mile outside of city limits where he made horseshoes, spurs, and God knew what else.
But The Kingpin, he was the real deal. Norman owned the biggest and best whorehouse, but Wilson Fisk owned the seven others. He owned eight of the ten bars too, one of which is where Remy was taking all of his money.
He was a rich as they come, as flush with cash as he apparently was with meals. His businesses provided plenty, but there was the other stuff, the stuff people whispered about. If you were set upon by bandits even a hundred miles away, there was a good chance some of your money was going to find it's way into The Kingpin's considerable pocket.
And now it was heading to Remy's. He had flipped his cards after studying Fisk's incredibly small pile of golden coins. His green cash had been given away some time ago, and he had thrown the gold down with a meaty fist to keep himself alive. Remy had him, knew he couldn't be beat. The fat man scowled at him, he hadn't been speaking much in the last two hours or so. He was sweaty, his face red, the sweat running down from his brow, leaving crisscrossing patterns of wet along his cheeks like slugs sliding across a stone path.
Remy got to bet. He glanced at the gold again. Four of them, a short stack sitting on the table, glinting in the lantern light. It had long since went from night to morning, though it was still pitch black outside, that magical hour or two Remy lived for where the good folks were in their beds and the scoundrels got to play.
"What do you wager you got there?" Remy asked, his cajun accent hanging in the air behind his words.
"What do you mean?" Fisk asked shortly.
"How much is that worth?" Remy said, speaking a little more slowly, knowing it would annoy the fat man. "For all of my green cash. I'm going to put you out, but if I don't, I want to make sure I get to keep these pretty gold coins you've been handing me half the night. So how much of my green ones covers that?"
Fisk scowled at the thinner, shorter, altogether smaller man. Then he looked his gold coins over. "Five hundred I'd say."
Remy laughed, a booming sudden thing which blew past his lips as he slammed his hand down a few times on the wooden table top. "I'm sure you would," he said finally, smiling at the fat man. He grabbed a glass mug next to him by the handle. A last swallow of yellow beer long gone warm sloshed in the bottom of the cup as he spoke again. "But I'm more comfortable calling it four hundred." With that he downed the beer and set the empty mug down.
"Call it what you will," Fisk said, trying on an expression that attempted to tell Remy he didn't care about losing so much money, but one he soured of quickly and dropped, his fat jowls taking the form of the scowl he had worn most of the night.
"Four hundred it is," Remy said, throwing enough of the bills onto the table. He then grabbed his cards, flipping them over as he tossed them towards The Kingpin. The fat man's eyes went wide, and it was his turn to slam a fist onto the table, but he slammed angrily, and he was strong enough that the table cracked under the blow. Remy grinned and stood, Grabbing his winnings quickly, snatching a few bills out of the air, forced off of the table by the bald man's blow.
"Now you listen here," The Kingpin started, but Remy was bowing and grabbing his hat from the table. He placed the short brimmed hat on his head and took up his winnings, stuffing it all into both pockets and the one on his garish purple vest. He tossed one of the gold coins back to the fat man.
"In case you need a whore to forget all of this," the Cajun said. He then grabbed his long brown duster and threw it over his arm and headed for the swinging front door of the bar, leaving The Kingpin to sit with his mouth agape at the man's audacity as the gold piece spun a few times on the tabletop before it hit the crack and fell over.
Halfway to the door Remy thought better of it and turned sharply, making a beeline for the bar. He stood at the long piece of polished wood and waited for the old bartender to make his way to him.
"Bottle of anything," Remy said, reaching into his pocket and slapping down some money. The old men reached under the bar and pulled out something without a label. It was amber in color, just light enough for Remy to see through. He took the bottle and headed out into the street.
The wide muddy road which cut through the heart of Marvel City was mostly empty, the silver moon hanging bloated in the sky just above the horizon. Soon it would be out of sight and the red Sun would rise to throw angry purple and gold streaks across the sky. Remy would be drunk when that happened, sleeping it off with a whore next to him.
He popped the lid off of the bottle he had been given and took a drink. Whiskey. It burned his throat as it slid down to his stomach. It was just a couple of blocks down to Osborn's place, the three storey whorehouse with a bar on the bottom floor and women on the two above it. It was quiet when the Cajun entered, just a short barkeep with a bushy mustache and a few girls sitting around a small square table taking turns downing shots.
The doors squeaked on rusty hinges when Remy entered, and one of the prostitutes rose from the drinking competition and walked on high heels to him. She had hair as red as a rooster's wattle and a dress as tight as a virgin. When she spoke her accent was wild, something Remy had never heard before, and her tone was deep and husky, but somehow still feminine.
"You looking for company?"
"I'm here, ain't I?"
"Sometimes men just want a bed"
"I want that to," Remy said with a grin. "But I want you in it."
"You have money, or just these high hopes?"
Remy pulled a wad of cash from one pocket. "Hows this?"
The red-haired woman smiled. "It's a start at least." She held her hand out. "I'm Natasha."
Remy bent at his waist and took her hand by the fingers while he pressed his pursed lips to the middle knuckle.
"A pleasure."
"Your accent… it's sexy," Natasha said, and Remy laughed.
"I was going to say the same to you."
"Come have a drink with us," one of the other whores called. Remy smiled and held his bottle up to them.
"We're all set," he said, and then he took Natasha's hand once more and pulled her towards the stairs. On the landing she took the lead, pulling him down a long hall with a floor made from thin slats of wood. The third door on the left is the one she stopped in front of, pulling a silver key from a pocket hidden somewhere on her dress and sliding it into the lock. The door was then opened, and Remy grabbed the woman by the waist with both hands and lifted her up, throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed and laughed, and he kicked the door shut before moving to the small bed in the corner and tossing her down upon it.
She sat up quickly and reached for his glasses. "Let's take these off," she said.
Remy grabbed her hand and shook his head. "Better not," he said.
"Suit yourself," the hooker said in her exotic accent, and then Remy bent and pressed his lips to her. They both tasted of alcohol, and they both wouldn't remember the night very well come morning.
Sunlight was creeping into a dusty window when Remy awoke. It had fallen across the floor and up onto the bed, right across his eyes. He turned to see Natasha next to him, still asleep. She was nude like him, the covers draped over her lithe form. Remy yearned to reach out and wake her, to kiss her, to make love to her again, but he didn't want to spend the money so he slid from bed and dressed. He didn't bother to count how much money he had left, was just content on the sum being 'enough'.
Downstairs Remy sidled up to the bar and sat on an uncomfortable stool. "You serve breakfast?" he asked the barkeep, a different man than last night. Younger, taller, broader in the shoulder, but with less hair atop his head.
"Bacon and eggs," the man said with a nod. "Got a damn good cook in the back."
"Let me have em," Remy said. "And a beer to wash it down with."
"Get a plate up here," the barkeep yelled, turning his head towards a small doorway off to the side of the bar. A black man peeked out and nodded, and then disappeared to prepare the food. The barkeep then grabbed a glass from a shelf and poured beer from a tap. He used a long flat blade to slough off the suds and filled it a bit more before setting it down in front of the Cajun.
"Remy tossed the man some money, and then he pulled something else from his pocket, a well worn deck of cards, so thoroughly handled it was hard to see exactly what suit some of them were. He began shuffling the cards, elaborate patterns with his long fingers. He had been doing this for only a moment when the door to the brothel swung open and three men entered.
One of them was clad in common cowboy garb, a wide brimmed hat, spurs on his boots. The other was dressed in more fancy attire, looking as if he would be more at home in New York City back East. The third man would never be noticed for what he wore. He was simply too big, a large man taller than anyone in Marvel, and more muscular too.
Remy turned his head to regard the three men. He always liked to see who was coming and going. In his line of work, if you weren't curious, you were dead.
"That's him right there, ain't it Montana?" the large man said.
"I think you're right," the cowboy answered. They were looking at Remy, and a realization dawned on him. He had never seen them before, but these men were The Enforcers, and they were known wide and far. They worked for The Kingpin. Montana, Fancy Dan, and the big man was named Ox.
Remy sighed quietly and kept shuffling his cards. He didn't watch the men approach him. Fancy Dan took a seat on one side, and Montana did on the other. The cowboy had two shining guns on either side of his hips. Ox took up a post directly behind Remy.
"You owe Mr. Wilson Fisk some money I heard," Montana said. He had a wad of tobacco in his mouth and he spit brown juice out onto the brothel floor.
"I don't think you're correct," Remy said, looking at the cowboy.
"I don't feel like dancing," Ox said suddenly, grabbing Remy by the shoulders and spinning him around on the stool. "So let's not dance." The big man grimaced and reached out, plucking Remy's glasses from his head before the smaller man could stop him. "And take off these stupid things," the man said.
Remy had closed his eyes as soon as the glasses were off, but he knew he had to lay his cards out on the table. Sometimes you just had to in life, just like poker. He did and Ox took a step back.
Remy's eyes were black where a normal man's were white, and his irises were a glowing pink.
"What are you?" Ox asked, and the other two men leaned to see what their partner was referring to.
"Holy Hell, you're one of them mutants," Fancy Dan said.
"You shouldn't have done that," Remy said, shaking his head softly. He had a hold of his cards still, and as the three Enforcers watched he held one up. It began to glow, the same wild pink as his eyes. An energy burst from the card, flickering like a flame upon the wick of a candle. The card was still there, the seven of clubs, but the energy surrounded it completely.
Remy flicked his wrist suddenly and sent the card down to the ground. It stick into the wooden floor between Ox's feet. The large man stared, and then he bent, holding a hand out as if he meant to pick up the card.
"What the Hell?" He said, and no one could answer him because there was a loud boom, and the card blew up, and so did a large section of the floor. The concussive force sent the large man flying back. He landed on the same table the whores had been drinking at the night before.
Before Fancy Dan or Montana could react Remy was up and running for the door, his coat flapping behind him.
"Get him!" Fancy Dan yelled, and Montana rose and pulled both of his pistols from his sides. His first shot went wide, slamming into the door frame in front of Remy. The Cajun turned, another card charged, and he threw it behind him where it sliced through the air, all the while glowing like the last one. It hit Montana square in the chest and there was another explosion and the cowboy went flying over the bar, smashing into rows of liquor bottles set up on wooden shelves.
Remy ran out the door and down the street. More people were up now, and a quick glance at the sky let him know it was close to midday, if not a bit past. He had to get out of town, he knew that. He had lost his glasses, and had no idea when he would ever find another pair like them. With his eyes he could never hide out among the normal population like he knew some mutants did.
People were turning and watching him as he ran past. He kept his head down, keeping his eyes from them. Up ahead there was an old man on a gray horse. Remy reached the horse and grabbed the reins, swinging easily up and knocking the old man from his horse. Remy was long past feeling bad for small slights against people, and knocking someone down was no where near the worst thing he had done in a week. He put his heels to the side of the horse and it sped on, throwing up dust as it pounded towards the edge of town.
The buildings fell suddenly away and Remy was free. As rural as Marvel was, even for a bigger place in terms of most out west, there's wasn't anything much more uninviting than the deserts of Texas. Luckily Remy knew exactly where he was headed.
"He did what?" The Kingpin asked, sitting up in his massive bed in his massive room atop one of his massive bars. He wore silk pajamas, and often slept till three in the afternoon or later. Fancy Dan was speaking for The Enforcers, but he felt his mouth go dry under the withering gaze of the fat man.
"He got away," Ox said, stepping forward. "He was a mutant."
"One of those abominations, huh?" Fisk asked, holding his hand out. Ox stepped forward and dropped Remy's glasses into his beefy hand.
"Yeah," Ox continued. "His eyes were black and pink. They glowed."
"And he threw cards which exploded?"
"Yeah."
The fat man was silent for a moment as he looked at the tinted glasses. Finally he tossed them aside.
"Go get me Marko," Wilson Fisk said before pointing to the desk across the room. "Get a couple bills from the right drawer, it cost that much to get him here."
"You want us to get The Sandman?" Fancy Dan asked.
"If that's what you superstitious idiots want to call him," Fisk said. "I would like to speak with him."
"He's two day's ride away," Ox said, shaking his head.
"Then you three better get moving," The Kingpin said.
"I only meant this Cajun guy is going to be long gone out there."
Fisk sighed. "Why do you all call him The Sandman?"
"Cause he can find anyone out in the desert." Ox said.
"Then bring him to me!" Fisk yelled, his face going red. "So he can bring that little shit to me!"
"Yes sir," Fancy Dan said for the three, and they all bowed a bit before hurrying out.
Two days after leaving Marvel City Remy was nearing his destination. It was evening, the sky dark with rolling clouds, gray and thick. Heavy drops of rain fell from them, sligning down and splashing onto the rocks, the sand, and animals alike. Remy was soaked through, and he was happy to see the little wooden sign planted amongst tangly brush to his right.
'Hangman's Noose,' it read, and just its sight made Remy warmer, and a little less hungry. Hangman's Noose was known to all the deviants, criminals, and otherwise salacious folks in Texas. It was a group of rocky outcropping in a peculiar shape, a ring of stone sat on the end with one entrance in and out. A tent city of sorts had sprung up there, at it was a good place to get a little bit of shut eye, a little bit of information, and a whole lot of trouble.
Remy saw the stone rise suddenly from the ground as he crest the final hill before it. When he reached it his horse was galloping as fast as she could go, brought on by the Cajun's heels.
The entrance through the rock wall was simply a low ceiling-ed tunnel made by blasting some dynamite some decades ago. Remy went through ducking his head. He came out the other side and looked for a place to tie off his horse. He found a thick branch sticking out of the ground next to a large sheet draped up in a lean to on two other branches. He stopped the horse next to it and climbed down, tying the reins to the branch and patting the animal on its nose.
Remy glanced into the lean to, saw only a young woman with brown skin the color of coffee with cream mixed in and shockingly white hair that was the pure color of snow. She looked up when she noticed him peeking in and smiled. When she spoke Remy came across his second odd accent in three days, the first having been the whore he had slept with in Marvel.
"Come out of the rain if you'd like," the black woman said, and Remy smiled and entered the tent.
He had been reminded of the whore, but now he was wondering what his chances would be of sleeping with the African beauty which sat before him. She wore black pants which looked a little big on her, held to her slim waist by a couple of belts, each one with a big silver buckle. Her shirt was cream colored and tattered, and a ladies ranch hand style hat sat on the grass next to her. She had a can of beans open before her, a spoon sticking out from inside.
"Hungry?" she asked, and Remy nodded and grabbed the can.
"You're a friendly type," Remy said, and the black woman laughed.
"My name is Ororo, and I'm friendly to all the others like me," she said.
"What do you mean?" Remy asked, but then it dawned on him, and he felt embarrassed. His eyes. He had been able to hide behind the glasses for so long he hadn't realized yet that they were gone. Riding alone had done enough to erase that thought from his mind. Ororo must have seen something of shock and worry on his face because she leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee.
"Relax. As I said, I'm one too. A mutant. What brings you here?"
"Trouble," Remy said, fighting to return an easy grin to his lips, despite his pounding heart. He took a few bites and then set the can of beans back down.
"Finish them if you want," Ororo said, but the Cajun shook his head.
"So what can you do?" he asked.
"You haven't even shown me what you can do," the black woman said, and when she smiled and tilted her head to the side some of her white hair fell down her shoulder like a cascading waterfall. Remy yearned to reach out and run his fingers through it, but he didn't dare.
He had a way with women, he thought it was a power of his. often they would look into those strange eyes of his and any fear they felt from seeing them melted away. Minutes later he was kissing them, or worse.
This young girl though, she was different. Remy didn't know why, but she didn't seem to be falling for him. He reached into his pocket and pulled a single playing card from it. He charged it, and it glowed pink. He tossed it to the corner of the tent and it hit the ground and exploded. He had been careful not to charge it as much as he had a few days ago, but it still ruffled the sheet and blackened it in one area.
Ororo looked to the spot on the sheet and then back to Remy. "That's handy I bet."
"It is," Remy said. "Your turn I think."
"Indeed," Ororo said, and she stood and went outside of the lean to. Remy got to his feet quickly and hurried after her.
The girl stood staring at the sky, and she stretched her arms to her side and her eyes glowed white. As Remy watched the rain lessened, turning to a drizzle before dying completely, and the clouds broke up and the orange evening Sun was seen off toward the horizon.
"Amazing," Remy said as they went back into the lean to. They sat again and Remy held his hand out.
"Remy LeBeau," he said, and the girl shook.
"Ororo," she said, not offering a last name. "But that's the name they gave me. I call myself Storm."
"The name they gave you?" Remy asked.
"My parents. I love them, but they aren't us."
"So you go by Storm."
"Right. A lot of mutants are doing it. I heard it from one of those boys at Xavier's ranch."
"Xavier's ranch?"
Storm laughed and shook her head. "Are you sure you're a mutant?"
Remy grinned. "I'm either a mutant, or we're both drunk as skunks, and I ran out of my last bottle some time ago."
"Xavier has a ranch, he's an old guy, his legs don't work, but his mind is amazing. He can, do things, and hear people think. He started this ranch where he takes us in. It's not really my kind of thing, or else I would be there now."
"It's not your kind of thing? Tell me, what is Storm?"
The black girl laughed. "I'm sure you don't hear this a lot, but you aren't my kind of thing either."
"You're right, I don't hear that a lot," Remy said.
"I'm heading somewhere on my own, but you might want to head out to Xavier's. Take you three days from here to get there, but I can draw you up a map in the morning, if you're staying here tonight."
"Is that an offer?"
"You stay on your side of the grass, and sure, it's an offer."
Remy thought for a minute, and then he smiled. "I accept."
Flint Marko stood at the edge of Marvel Town with Wilson Fisk. It was midday, the Sun round and yellow and hot above them. Fisk daubed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. Marko was calm and cool under a wide brimmed hat. The clothes he wore were the color of the desert, tan and white and brown.
"He came this way," The fat man said.
"Yes, I see the marks here," Marko said, bending at the knee and studying the indent of horses hooves, along with a bigger mark. "He pushed someone from a horse."
"That's what they say," Wilson said, surprised. "How did you know that?"
"Sand can tell us everything," Marko said. "Half now, half when I get back with this mutant."
The Kingpin handed The Sandman a wad of bills. "He has quite a head start on you," Fisk said.
"No one can move through the sand as fast as I can," Marko replied, and then he climbed atop his horse, a white beat with a long black streak down his snout. He tucked the money into his saddlebag, and then he was off. Fisk watched him go.
Trying to judge by the crude map Ororo had drawn for him, Remy was pretty sure he was half a day's rise from Xavier's ranch. He had stopped near a small stream which cut through a bit of uncharacteristic wood for a drink. It was always a shock to Remy to see trees and plants rise suddenly from the sandy and rocky barren land that was Texas, but it did happen, and frequently enough to keep travelers alive.
Remy had just climbed back upon his horse and stashed his newly filled canteen when he happened to look back to the east, the way he had come. It was faint but he could just see a man riding a quick horse, right on the same path he had taken to the stream. Remy wasn't sure if the man was after him or it was just a coincidence, but he knew he would rather not find out one way or the other. He got his horse moving, and tried not to look back.
Of course this was easier said than done, and over the next couple hours Remy watched as the man got closer and closer. Remy was sure now he was after him, and he knew he needed to stop and prepare for a fight, less the man overtake him and spoil any preparations he might make.
The Cajun found himself stopping at the base of a large hill, ringed with rocky crust and carpeted with loose soil which grew thorny bushes. Remy left his horse tied to a small fallen log, the last remnants of a long gone tree at the base of the hill. He hurried up the hill, wanting the high ground. Remy crouched behind one of the large bushes, his cards in his hands, nervously shuffling them over his knee.
He watched as the man arrived ten minutes after he did, climbing off of his own horse and tying him to the same log. Remy had been worried that the man would kill his horse, and he had become attached to the animal, but instead the cowboy turned and started up the hill. He pulled a gun as he walked, and for the first time in a long time Remy regretted not having one of his own.
"I know you're up there," the man said. He was near enough now for Remy to see him well through the branches of the bushes. His chin was square and sharp, impressively built. "You're behind the bush, I see your trail right to it," the man added, and Remy knew there was nothing to do but stand and reveal himself.
"Are you Remy LeBeau?" the square jawed man asked him.
"Yes," Remy answered, and he kept his hand at his side, behind the bush as he began to charge three cards, holding each between two different fingers.
"I'm Flint Marko," the man said, and Remy's heart went cold. The Sandman. Everyone knew him. There wasn't a criminal within a five state area which didn't. He always found who he was looking for. It was said the only bounty hunter who could best The Sandman was The Wolverine. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," Remy said.
"Then you know you had better come with me," The Sandman said, taking a few steps up the hill, his gun held in front of him.
"I think I had better, but I'm not one on doing what I should," Remy said, and then he was moving, sliding sideways and flicking his wrist. His cards went shooting down toward the man, and Marko raised his gun and blew one, and then two cards out of the air, but the third one hit him and Remy had to press his advantage. He liked to talk, and knew it could annoy other men, particularly in a fight, so as he charged another card and threw it he spoke.
"And Remy is my human name, but uh, I'm not a human you know. Might as well call me Gambit."
Marko had been flung backwards, but he was up now and firing his gun. Remy came rushing down, flinging card after card, most of them hitting the ground, only one more hitting Marko, sending him painfully back down.
And then Marko realized that the Cajun wasn't trying to hit him, and with each explosion directed to the ground more dust and sand was kicked up, and Flint couldn't see. Blinded by sand. The irony was not lost on him.
There he was, this man calling himself Gambit was coming forward, out of the sand and he attacked with his fists. He knocked Marko's gun away, it clattered to the ground and was out of sight. Remy was skilled, and Marko couldn't stop him. He was also skilled at sleight of hand, and The Sandman had no idea Gambit had pulled the silver cuffs he so often used on targets from his belt until they were being slapped onto one of his own wrists. The other went down, pulling Markop with it, and locked around his ankle.
Marko bellowed and reached for his key, but that too was gone. For that matter so was Gambit. Marko fell over, unable to stand in such an awkward position. He could hardly move. The dust and sand finally settled, and The Sandman saw he was alone, and both of the horses were gone. He looked toward the horizon, and he could just see a plume of dust from the two horses beating a hasty retreat.
For the rest of the trip Gambit made good time, and he couldn't help but let his jaw hung open when he saw the size of the ranch. Xavier was a rich man. He rode his horse through an ornately carved wooden archway, pulling Marko's horse along with him. He rode down past pastures and fields, and the house which loomed ahead was massive and almost intimidating. Remy left both of the horses tied to a hitching post a few feet from the front steps of the porch, and then he went up them and knocked on the door. He didn't know what to expect next, but that was how the Cajun liked it.