(Cast: Gambit, Iceman, Wolverine, Frenzy, Rogue, Members of the Unified Guilds, and an assortment of Marvel characters from the Gambit ongoing series. Takes place in current continuity with Wolverine and the X-Men. Story contains adult language, violence, references to abuse, and adult situations.)

I wake up and the phone is ringing,
Surprised, as it's early.
And that should be the perfect warning,
That something's a problem.

"Someone Great," LCD Soundsystem

"I fold," Jean-Paul announced with a grimace of disgust. He slapped his cards face-down onto the tabletop.

"I call," said Kyle with a sympathetic smile in his boyfriend Jean-Paul's direction. "Well, Bobby. What've you got?" Kyle asked as he set down two pair.

"I got nothin'!" Bobby moaned, and revealed his his hand.

"Wow, dat's really embarrassing," Remy drawled, coolly appraising Bobby's assortment of playing cards. Remy held his cards face-down on the table, his expression completely neutral.

"Fine!" Bobby said, flinging his hand in a throw-away gesture. "Let's see how bad you beat me this time."

With a self-satisfied smile, Remy turned over three cards, then the last two. "Straight," he said.

Jean-Paul sighed theatrically. "On that note...," Jean-Paul shoved his chair back and stood. "I'm getting another beer." He walked into the his apartment's kitchen, leaving the other three men where they were seated at the poker table.

"Don't bother asking if anyone would like something while you're up," Kyle said to Jean-Paul's back. Kyle smiled apologetically at his guests. "I'd be happy to bring something back from the kitchen...?"

Remy waved away Kyle's offer. Bobby finished the dregs of his bottle and held up his forefinger, signaling he'd like another as Kyle joined Jean-Paul in the kitchen.

Bobby set down his empty bottle. "I hate playing this game with you," Bobby informed Remy.

"Not up for de challenge?" Remy asked as he collected the chips and stacked them at his elbow.

"Nobody's that lucky," Bobby replied with annoyance, pointing at Remy's winnings for the evening.

"Now, luck's got nothin' t'do with it," Remy remarked proudly with a shake of his head that sent his hair falling into his eyes.

"Oh, so you admit you're cheating," Bobby said.

"Robert, consider my whoopin' your butt as a learning opportunity. You might want t'start takin' notes."

"Thanks, Professor LeBeau," Bobby replied sarcastically.

Remy moved to collect his hand and the rest of the cards when his cell phone rang. It buzzed across the table.

"Booty call," Bobby announced to Jean-Paul and Kyle.

"Now that really would be a bit of luck," Remy shot Bobby a smirk and turned his phone over so it lay face up. The caller's name and number appeared on the screen. Remy's smile quickly disappeared.

"Don't answer it," Bobby said, putting his hands behind his head. "I need to redeem myself here. Deal all ready."

Remy seized the phone as if to strangle it. "As if dat's an option," Remy muttered as the phone continued to buzz. He stood and paced away from the table.

"What? Some kind of emergency? The fashion police calling to revoke your skinny jeans privileges?" Bobby asked.

"Now there's a tragedy," Jean-Paul said in an undertone as he rejoined the table. Kyle frowned at him.

Ignoring them, Remy unlocked his smart phone and answered with a sharp: "Que veux-tu?" His expression shifted to neutrality. After a long pause, he began a long line of rapid-fire French with no discernible breaks or pauses for breath. The conversation ended just as abruptly as it began. He then stared at the face of his phone for several moments.

Jean-Paul pulled a drink from his bottle. "Your French is terrible," he declared. "I could understand perhaps one word in twenty."

"It's called a regional dialect, you snob," Remy retorted absently, then: "I have to go."

"Bad news?" asked Kyle.

Remy shook his head, not providing an answer.

"Hey, we're not finished here," Bobby said, pointing at the small pile of chips he had remaining to him. "I still have more to lose."

Remy took his jacket from the back of his chair and slid his arms into it. "As fun as dat would be, I have something I have to take care of."

"What could need taken care of at quarter past twelve? Unless it really is a booty call," Bobby said as Remy walked away. "Hellooo...are you going to answer me?"

Remy strode to the door, jiggling his pocket in search of his car keys. He turned, distractedly, looking around the apartment. "Where's my phone?" he muttered mostly to himself.

"Uh, it's in your hand," Bobby said, pointing.

"Oh, right," Remy said looking at his phone as if seeing it for the first time. He opened the apartment door and walked out, closing it behind him. They all stared at the closed door. A few moments passed, then Remy reopened the door and stuck his head back into the room. "Thanks for de game. 'Night." He then shut the door again.

"What the heck," Bobby said, "was that all about?"

"But who can understand that gibberish he was speaking?" Jean-Paul said with a shrug. He began gathering the cards. "Though I think he might have said the word: 'funeral.'"

Rogue was standing in the front yard staring at a clipboard. In her hand she held a pair of flags, one red and one blue. Several students began to cluster around her expectantly. Still others trailed out of the front door of The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning. They were soon followed by Frenzy, clad in her black uniform. When she left the shadow of the school building, she scowled up at the sky as if she could out-glare the sun. Iceman appeared from behind her, rubbing his eyes in the early morning light.

"Ugh," he said as he approached the students gathered around Rogue.

Rogue glanced up from her lesson plans. "Rough night?" she asked, with a smile.

Iceman continued to rub his forehead. "Don't ever let Northstar talk you into Patron shots at one a.m.," he muttered in an undertone so the students couldn't overhear.

"And on a school night? For shame. Sounds like you aren't as young as you used t'be," Rogue said.

"I blame Gambit entirely. It's his fault for leaving the poker game early."

Rogue looked around and beckoned the last of the stragglers with a wave of her hand.

"Gather 'round y'all!" she announced and Iceman winced. "The name of the game is "Capture The Flag." Now we'll split into two teams-."

"Team captain!" shouted Quentin Quire as he fired his hand into the air.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Quire, Ah'd like to finish my instructions..." she broke off and scanned the group. "Where's Marvel and Gambit?" she asked.

Frenzy responded with a shrug while Iceman methodically rubbed his temples and moaned.

Just then, Rachel appeared, her long coat flaring out behind her as she strode down the front stairs and onto the lawn. "Sorry," she said as she approached. "Am I late?"

Rogue looked at her watch. "Not as late as Gambit's about t'be."

"Oh, here," Rachel said, she extended a note towards Rogue. "That's why I was running behind. Message from the main office. Gambit's not coming."

Rogue took the note from Rachel's hand, a small frown on her face. Her eyes flicked over the piece of scrap paper. "'Family emergency'?" Rogue read.

Rachel nodded, extending her arms out to her sides. "He didn't give specifics," she said.

"He wouldn't," Rogue said flatly, folding the scrap of paper and shoving it into her clipboard. "They call and he comes a'runnin'."

"She says without a hint of irony," Frenzy muttered under her breath.

As Rogue's frown deepened, Iceman announced: "Oh, right...before the tequila, I vaguely remember something from last night."

"What's that?" Rogue asked, turning her attention back to Iceman.

"He said he was going to a funeral," Iceman replied, happy to provide some details to whatever it was that Gambit did when he wasn't being an X-Man.

Rogue looked taken aback. "A funeral...who's?" she asked with sudden concern.

"He didn't say," Iceman responded, now disappointed. "I mean, he might have, but I couldn't understand him. What with the gibberish and all..."

"Well, did he seem upset?"

Iceman considered this. "Hm, no, just his usual Gambit-y self. After just suffering a very slight stroke."

Rogue was about to respond when one of the ruder students spoke out. "Are we just going to stand here, or were you planning on teaching something today?"

Rogue shot Quentin Quire a glare while he pretended to take interest in a nearby tree.

"Here, Bobby," Rogue said, handing Iceman the clipboard and the pair of flags. "Ah've got it all written down. Why don't you take over."

"Me?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, him?" retorted Frenzy.

"Try not to let things get out of hand," Rogue said quietly to Marvel Girl as she passed.

As Rogue departed, Iceman read over the class notes. "Okay, everyone. We're gonna do this thing..." he began weakly. He looked up at the students, who without their usual instructor, were preparing a mutiny against their new substitute. Iceman sensed the imminent rebellion. "Only there's a new challenge!" he added brightly, pointing skyward. "We're all going to play this game...in complete silence..."

"That's stupid!" said Quentin. "Let's just get this over with...I'll take you, you...no, not you, of course not you!" He jabbed his finger at his each of his fellow classmates in turn.

"Quentin..." Iceman whispered. "Psst, hey."

"And you...hm, maybe you can be an alternate."

Iceman crooked his finger at Quentin. "C'mere...I want to talk to you. That's it...come

a little closer."

Quentin rolled his eyes as Iceman draped a convivial arm over the younger mutant's shoulder. "I said you're supposed to be silent," Iceman whispered.

"Why?" Quentin asked loudly. "I don't see the-."

"Shhhhhh..." Iceman mashed a finger against the boy's lips. "Because. Children

shouldn't be seen or heard, that's why."

"It's 'should be seen and not heard,'" Quentin said, pushing Iceman's hand away.

"In your case, we're making an exception. Now take one of these flags and plant it before I plant you. And don't say another word."

Remy wasn't answering her calls, nor did he answer the intercom when she buzzed his apartment. Rogue slipped in the apartment building after volunteering to hold the door for a frazzled woman who had three excitable Dachshunds on leashes. She rode up the elevator with the woman and her dogs for a few floors, then continued alone to the top floor while eyeing the puddle of dog urine that had been left behind.

She supposed Remy could be gone by now, but since she'd come all this way, she might as well try to catch him. She knocked on Remy's apartment door. She didn't really expect him to answer so she was startled when the door was yanked open.

He stood there in his bare feet and the rumpled clothes she'd seen him in yesterday, a dwindling cigarette hanging from his lip.

"You're smoking again?" she blurted out, caught off-guard for a moment.

He stepped back from the door and removed a second cigarette from a mostly-empty pack as she stepped into his apartment. He lit the second cigarette with the glowing end of his first, then tossed the butt into a highball glass containing melting ice and other spent cigarettes.

"Ah thought you'd quit?" she asked as he walked to the couch. His laptop was open on the coffee table and he slouched in front of it. He replied with a shrug, then jabbed a key on the laptop repeatedly with his forefinger. He squinted at the screen through the haze of blue smoke.

"Damn flight delays," he groused at the airline website.

Rogue looked around the apartment. She'd never been inside before, and wasn't sure what she was expecting. She spotted a second glass full of soggy cigarette filters and a sludge of ash at the bottom. "Well, it smells like a pool hall in here," she said, walking over to the window and urging it open a crack. She gathered the two dirty glasses and took them to the kitchen area, pitching the contents into the trashcan. "You're gonna make yourself sick," she remarked.

Remy slapped his laptop closed and stalked into the bedroom. Rogue followed. "Ah got your message, is everything all right? Bobby said you were going to a funeral."

"Bobby should learn to keep his mouth shut," Remy responded. He had two travel bags on his bed. He walked over to his closet and removed a black jacket from its hanger.

"Ah'm sorry t'hear about your loss. Is it...were you very close?" Rogue asked.

Remy shook his head distractedly, stuffing the jacket into a garment bag. "Tante Mattie," he finally answered.

Rogue felt tears prick her eyes and dread she'd first felt when Bobby mentioned a funeral settled into her gut. "Ah'm so sorry, sugah," she said. "Ah know how special she was t'you. And t'me, only that Ah knew her just a short time and...is there anything Ah can do?"

"Well, here's de t'ing," Remy said, taking a final drag on his cigarette while refusing to look at her. "Not everything in my life has t'do wit' you. And you've all ready made it perfectly clear that y'want nothin' t'do with me and the same goes for my family too. So what you can do, is stay out of it."

Rogue sucked in a breath and blinked away her tears. "Now, look, Remy," she said gently. "Ah know you're hurtin,' and Ah understand what you're goin' through. But y'don't have t'bite mah head off. Ah don't want you having t'come back later feeling like you have t'apologize-."

"I'm done apologizin' to you," he snapped. "Waste of breath."

"Ah came here to see if Ah could help you," she persisted.

"Y'came to feel self-important and good about yourself. It's not anything t'do with me." he said, struggling to zip his carry-on bag while holding a cigarette in one hand. He stabbed the cigarette back into his mouth with a shower of ash. "Well, I don't have time t'stroke your ego," he said around the cigarette. The bag still refused zip. "Dammit all anyhow!"

Rogue pulled the bag from his hands and zipped it shut. "There now-," she began just as he turned and stormed into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him and there was a sudden sound of breaking glass.

"Remy?" Rogue quickly walked to the door and was about to turn the knob when she heard the unmistakable sound of Remy being sick. She leaned her forehead against the door. After she heard the toilet flush, she called again. "Are you all right?"

She heard a groan from the vicinity of the bathroom floor. She crouched beside the closed door. "Are you hurt?"

"I'll be fine," his voice rang hollow from inside the bathroom. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "You were right. About gettin' sick. Also the apology part. I'm not myself."

"That's fine, sugah," she said, standing up. "You get a free pass for today."

"I'll need some time...A week. T'settle her affairs. Since no one can find Jean-Luc, it falls t'me."

"Take all the time you need. Are y'sure you don't want some help?"

"I can handle it."

"But you don't have to, not alone," she replied.

"It'd be easier...if it weren't you askin'," he finally answered through the door. "I'll call you. Wit' the hours for de services. If you want t'pay your respects. I'm sure Mattie would..."

She waited for several moments, but he didn't finish his thought. "Ah'll talk to you soon, then. All right...? Don't make me worry after you."

She took his silence as confirmation and turned to leave.

Cecelia Reyes showed no surprise when Remy showed up at her door. "What happened?" she asked without preamble, looking at the bloody dishrag tied around his left hand.

He walked into her offices as if he were on a stroll through the park. "Had a run in with my reflection."

"Well, let's see it then," she said, taking his hand and opening his makeshift bandage. "Why didn't you go to the hospital, or have Hank patch you up?"

"No time. I have a flight to catch. Can I impose on you?"

Cecelia let out a belabored sigh. "Sit down," she said, pointing to the exam table. "Most of these are superficial," she said, looking at his damaged hand. "This one will need a few sutures though. I hope you're right-handed."

"Might be a lefty," he replied.

"You want to tell me why you're putting your hand through mirrors?" Cecelia asked as she gathered supplies from a nearby closet.

"Bad hair day."

"Wrong answer. Would you like to play again?"

"Depends on de prize," he asked, watching as she began to clean his cuts.

"How about me not calling Xavier and telling him about this."

Remy considered a moment. "Sounds like a pretty good prize. Can I see what's behind door number two? Owww!"

"Hold still. Have you been taking the medication?" she asked.

"Are you a real doctor, or do you just play one on TV?"

"Answer. The question," Cecelia said slowly, staring him in the eyes.

"Yes, yes! All right! I am!" Remy retrieved his hand from her grip. "Dieu, you're scary."

She applied several butterfly closures to the rest of his wounds. "Let me wrap that."

"It's fine."

"You're not getting on a plane looking like Frankenstein's monster," she said, returning with gauze and an amber bottle. "Take these too."

Remy reluctantly took the bottle. "What's dese for now?"

"To keep you calm." He opened his mouth to protest and quickly snapped it shut when he saw the look on her face. "You're practically vibrating off the table," she observed.

"That could have interesting implications," he smiled.

"All right, you're done," she told him, pointing at the door. "And I don't want to see you on this table again."

"We do have to quit meeting up like dis."

"And you'll call me if you start feeling like punching yourself in the face again."

He hopped down off the table and walked towards the door. "As soon as you start working on your bedside manner. I can't take any more abuse."

"I mean it, Remy."

"I don't doubt it, chere," he said as he stepped through her door. "That's what I like about you. I never doubt anything you say."

Remy was walking along one of the ruts that made up the drive leading to the cabin. In spite of the heat and humidity, he was wearing an Army-green canvas jacket over his travel-worn shirt. He carried a few broken down cardboard boxes under one arm. His other hand was bandaged, but bleeding.

He finally made it to the top of the driveway. He stood and surveyed Tante Mattie's homestead. It was a century-old cabin set back in a field. Lake Pontchartrain sparkled in the sun behind it. There was a small shed with a chicken coop, a hand pump, and a white nanny goat tied by a chain to a tractor tire.

He set the boxes down on the front porch and walked over to the goat, which bleated at him and wagged it's tail.

"You're one lucky goat," he told her. "Figured the gators would've got you by now." He scratched the goat's knobbly head and unhooked her chain. "Let's fix you up with some water."

Walking over to the shed, he scattered several fat red hens that were pecking about in the grass. He overturned the droppings-encrusted automatic waterer with the toe of his boot. Gingerly lifting it by the handle he dragged it over to the water pump, rinsed it, and refilled it. The goat patiently followed behind. Back at the shed he heaved open the door, which dragged a half-moon shape in the dirt. The galvanized can that held the chicken feed was empty, save for some droppings at the bottom.

"Rats," he said morosely. He hated them.

He looked up into the rafters above, where the small bales of alfalfa were stored for the goat. There was one bale left. He heaved the step-stool over and climbed up. Grabbing the twine binding, he yanked the bale towards himself. Suddenly, he found himself him face to face with a hissing, pale-faced, jaggedy-toothed, multi-eyed monster which clung to the top of the bale.

With a shout, he stumbled backwards down the step ladder, windmilling his arms as he spilled out into the yard. The hens flapped away, clucking in a panic. After the initial fright, Remy began slapping dust and straw from his clothes. He slowly approached the shed and reached for the metal rake kept just inside the door. He used it to poke the teetering bale back into place. The female opossum on top of it responded by hissing. The small babies clinging to her back echoed her. He backed out of the shed and pushed the door shut.

"Pretend you didn't see dat," he told the goat. The goat stared at him with its strange, square pupils.

"Neh," it said.

He decided to give up animal care as a bad job and head over to the house. Once on the front porch, he opened the creaking screen door and pushed the front door inward. Hesitating a moment, he stepped into the dim interior. The first thing that hit him was the smell.

For an instant, he felt a moment's spinning panic that somehow Tante Mattie was still here, in the house, and dead. He blinked away the spots that danced before his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw that the smell was from a plate of spoiled food left on the kitchen table. Flies buzzed around the abandoned plate, left sitting with a knife and fork and napkin. The table and chairs had been pushed aside, as was the trunk that served as a coffee table. The braided rag rug was rolled up, revealing the worn wood floor which was covered with muddy footprints leading in out of the house.

Remy walked to the table, picked up the plate, and pitched its rotting contents into the garbage kept outside the back door. He heaved open all the windows, climbed up into the loft, and opened the vents on either end of the house. When the floor was swept and mopped, he pulled the furniture back into place. It occurred to him that he should clean out the pantry in case there was other spoiled food. The goat bleated at him through the screen door, which gave him an idea.

He was staring at a dented can and wondering if goats ate candied yams when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel from outside. Seeing as how his father Jean-Luc had largely kept the city and local contractors away from Mattie's property through bribery, coercion, and outright threats, it was unusual to have visitors. Mattie took care of anyone else who thought to bother a single elderly woman living alone with novelty skulls, a hodge podge of voodoo paraphernalia, and a goat which she occasionally painted runes on with fake blood. He walked over to the front window and peered out. Two men were descending from a white truck. One had a surveyor scope, the other a walking measure. His lip curled. The vultures were all ready circling.

Remy walked back to the pantry, reached to the uppermost shelf, and pulled down a shotgun. He checked to be sure it was loaded. Okay, if bribes and witchcraft didn't work, he could always play the angry redneck card.

The two men were conferring together when Remy stepped onto the front porch. "Hey!" he shouted, shouldering the shotgun. The pair jerked to attention. One of them dropped his clipboard. "Git offa mah property!" he drawled.

The man who had just lost his clipboard held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa, hey!" he said. "I'm sorry...Mr...uhm. We're from -."

"I don't care where y'all come from, but I'll send ya straight t'hell if'n ya don't git!"

"We weren't aware there was anyone left on the premises, sir," said the other man. "We're only here to survey the property to make the appraisal. We'll be gone in no time."

"Whoever told you t'come here?" Remy asked, switching his sights to the second man.

The first man retrieved his clipboard from the dirt. "Uhm, ugh...Mr. LeBeau?" he answered.

"I'm Mr. LeBeau, and I didn't give nobody no permission to be here, now get lost!"

The two men looked at each other for a moment when Remy fired the shotgun into the air. They beat a hasty retreat to their vehicle, reversed it into the yard as chickens scattered, and sped back up the rutted driveway. Remy sighed and lowered the shotgun. When he was certain they were gone, leaving nothing but a rising trail of dust, he went back inside. The goat was nosing through the trash bag he'd set beside the pantry door. He set the gun beside the front door, removed a bruised pear from the bowl on the counter, and handed it to the goat.

"Neh," it said, and wagged its tail.

Remy looked around the small one-room cabin. Mattie didn't own very much, but at the moment, taking down all her cookware, her family photos, her books, and the other items collected over a century-plus-long lifetime seemed too daunting. He sat himself on the threadbare sofa and leaned his head back against the wall. Even though the cabin was hot and close he pulled the nearby quilt over his lap. His hand hurt. He fished several pills from inside his jacket pockets and swallowed them dry. There was blood on the bandages that Cecelia had wrapped his hand in. He thought he probably popped the stitches she'd put in when he'd punched his cousin Theo in the face. To be perfectly honest, he didn't remember punching Theo. Only he was never perfectly honest, so he chose to overlook this memory lapse for the time being.

He hadn't been back home for an hour before Theo had started in on him, spouting off about how it was just like Remy to show up after all the heavy lifting was done. Then some stuff about loyalty, respect, responsibility, and how Remy scored in all of these categories. Not very well, apparently. The next thing Remy recalled was Theo laying on the carpet with a mouthful of bloody teeth. Remy was out the door and driving away in Genard's beater pickup truck, which of course Remy had stolen from the driveway. How he'd arrived back at Tante Mattie's house was something of a mystery to him, but it was always a refuge before and his subconscious must have guided him back to her door.

On top of everything else, the airline had lost his luggage.

He realized he must have dozed off for a bit when the sound of the screen door slamming shut startled him awake. He lifted his head to see the goat had pushed its way outside. Remy could hear the sounds of a motor in the distance getting closer every second. He pulled himself upright and retrieved the shotgun. He felt as if he were walking through water. Or if everything he was experiencing was just a dream. Once out on the front porch he felt that he had to sit down. He put his hand on top of his head to keep it from floating away. When he saw the vehicle, he knew he must be dreaming. It was a familiar black truck with out of state license plates. When it pulled up to the rickety picket fence, he let his hand drop and his hoped his thoughts wouldn't scatter like the frightened chickens.

"Does anyone hear banjo music?" Bobby asked, peering out the passenger side window of Logan's truck. "Where are you taking us? This is like, Deliverance country out here."

Logan folded the piece of paper with the directions and the crudely-drawn map with one hand, while steering with the other. "She said he'd be here," he responded, shoving the map into the center console while keeping his eyes on the driveway before them. When the small wooden shack appeared before them he slowed the truck to a halt. "And look, she was right."

Logan and Bobby peered through the dusty windscreen at the sight before them. There was an ancient shack surrounded by a rough picket fence. The fence was decorated with stacks of skulls and what appeared to be shrunken heads. The yard was full of chickens. Bits of string and wind-chimes made of shells hung limply from the eaves of the porch. And Gambit was sitting on that front porch with a shotgun across his knees. Also there was a goat.

"Looks like the right place," Logan said and stepped out of the truck. When he slammed the door shut Bobby was caught with a blast of hot, humid air. The truck cab immediately began to grow increasingly hot.

"Open the damn door all ready," shouted a voice from the backseat of the truck. Bobby turned to look at Joanna, who was crammed into the rear of the extended cab. She raised a hand and flicked him between the eyes.

"Ow, jeez!" Bobby said, flinging open the door and dropping to the ground. He sucked in lung-fulls of hot air and exhaled. "In the name of all that's holy. It is hotter than hell out here!"

Joanna hopped down from the truck and slammed the doors.

"No wait," Bobby said, pawing at the door handle, "let me back in. Let me try to remember what air conditioning feels like." Joanna shoved him so he turned back around and practically frog-marched him towards the front of the truck.

Logan was standing in front of the fence. Remy was staring back at him with a stunned look on his face.

"You plannin' on shootin' us?" Logan called.

Remy looked down at the shotgun. He set it down and slowly stood. "What are you doing here?" Remy finally asked.

"Rogue volun-told me to come," Bobby answered, he jerked his thumb behind him at Joanna. "And she's on unpaid administrative leave."

Remy descended the steps and approached the fence. "What? Why?"

"For punching a student," Logan answered.

"Through a window," Bobby added.

Remy blinked at Bobby.

"A second story window," he amended.

Remy turned and looked at Joanna with a frown.

"Little punk had it coming," she muttered.

Remy shook his head slowly. "Well, that still doesn't tell me why you're here."

"Rogue said you'd need help. Figure the work'd go quicker if you had some extra hands," Logan replied.

"What-no..." Remy said, waving them back. "I don't..."

"Just point us at what needs doing and we'll do it," Logan continued.

Still maintaining his stunned expression, Remy turned and wandered back toward the house. Bobby and Joanna exchanged a glance as Logan followed.

"Can't believe you drove all the way here..." Remy was saying.

"Yeah, me neither," Bobby said. "Believe me, it was no picnic. Joanna's super-strength is counter-balanced by a super-weak bladder. Seriously, we had to stop every twenty miles!"

Knowing she was about to punch him, Bobby instinctively ducked. She kicked him instead.

Remy and Logan disappeared into the house. Bobby stepped up onto the porch keeping a wide berth between himself and the goat. He walked through the front door and into the dim interior and came to an abrupt halt. "Seriously! It's even hotter in here!" Joanna crashed into him from behind and they both stumbled inside.

"Smells like something died in here," Joanna griped, crinkling her nose.

Remy turned around very slowly to regard her. "Or someone, you mean?"

"Geez, Joanna, do you have chronic foot-in-mouth disease?" Bobby asked.

Apparently unembarrassed by her faux-pas, Joanna continued: "Someone actually lived in this dump? Is there even electricity?"

Remy shook his head slowly.

"Running water?"

He pointed to a pump set into a soapstone sink.

"A bathroom?"

His finger moved to point out the back door to an outhouse. Joanna gaped at him. Then her expression grew grim and she marched past him towards the back door.

"There's a broomstick handle in front of de door," he told her back. "If you hit de door wit' it a few times, it should scare de snakes away."

Joanna paused to turn and look at him for a long moment. Realizing he was serious, her face turned a different shade of red...almost puce.

"And don't forget to put lime down when you're done...'cause of de raccoons," Remy concluded. He turned back to Logan and Bobby when the door slammed shut.

"So what's with the goat?" Bobby asked.

"She was helping me clean out de pantry," Remy explained, as if that made any sense.

"Bobby can help finish with that," Logan said. "Anything else?"

"I dunno," Remy said, looking around the room absently. "Well, dere's de icebox, too."

"Icebox," Bobby said. "I like the sound of that. Point me to it."

Remy pointed to a cabinet with double doors that stood next to the pantry.

"How about we pack everything in boxes and you can decide what to keep later?" Logan prompted.

Remy nodded slowly. "Okay, sounds like a plan."

There was a stack of newspapers beside the hearth of a stone fireplace. Logan collected the papers. He began removing items from shelves and wrapping them. There was an odd assortment of plates and cups, nothing that matched.

"Tante didn't have very much," Remy said, almost apologetically, as Logan removed the various items and set them onto the butcher block counter. "Most of what she had was stuff she needed. She gave everything else away."

Bobby walked over to the icebox and opened the doors. "Well, there's no ice," he said. It was still slightly cool though so he stuck his head inside. He studied the contents, most of which sat in various states between frozen and thaw. "Should we eat any of this before it goes bad?" he asked.

Remy paused in the re-construction of a cardboard box. "Tante was plenty good at a lot of t'ings," he said, "but cooking wasn't one of dem. She just put together whatever people gave her. I recall some sort of dish with green beans in it once. The memory of it is enough to make me weep."

"Did it look like this?" Bobby asked, pulling the foil off the top of a casserole dish.

Remy regarded it with a look of horror, then abruptly sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. There was a soft thump as his forehead hit the tabletop.

"Okay, so ...toss?" Bobby was asking when Joanna returned. She was waving her arms around her head in a panicked sort of way.

"What is the matter with you?" Logan said, as Joanna flailed about.

She stopped and wiped her face. "There was a spider web," she answered angrily. She looked at Remy, who was still laying face down on the table. "What the hell? What's wrong with you?" she said. "Get up. An angry Gambit, I can handle."

"Madbit," Bobby said as he pulled things from the icebox and dumped them into the trash.

"I can even tolerate a happy Gambit," Joanna continued.

"Gladbit," Bobby supplied.

"But I am not going to deal with a miserable Gambit," she concluded.

"...Sadbit."

"Thirteen hours of this...," Logan began. "Joanna go clear those bookshelves."

Joanna stomped over to the shelves, dragging the box Remy had assembled behind her.

"What's up here?" Logan asked while pointing to the loft. He put his foot to the first step of the ladder leading upwards.

Remy looked up. "Bunch of junk," he answered.

"You want me to pull it down?" Logan asked, testing the tread which creaked ominously under his foot. "Or maybe not."

"Nah, it's fine," Remy waved him off. "It's mostly my junk."

Joanna flipped through one of Tante Mattie's books. "What is this, some kind of spell book? Was your old auntie some kind of witch?"

"No, she was a - an, ah-achoo!" Remy sneezed compulsively. He sneezed several more times and began to cough. "I need some air," he said as he fled through the back door.

"Just put it away," Logan said roughly. Joanna made a face and unceremoniously dropped the book into the box. Logan opened the trunk that sat in the center of the floor. There was a collection of books and blankets inside. There was a package wrapped in brown paper amidst the clutter. He slammed the trunk shut as Remy re-entered the cabin. Remy was dragging his sleeve across his eyes.

"I'll take this out to the truck," Logan said, and Remy wordlessly nodded. Logan hefted the trunk onto his shoulder and walked out the front door.

"Allergies?" Bobby asked.

"Sure," Remy responded.

"Look what I found," Joanna sang. "Widdle Wemy's baby pictures!"

Bobby immediately dropped what he was doing. "Oo, I want to see."

Remy groaned.

Joanna held out a photograph of an stout African American woman holding an infant that was unmistakably Remy.

"Aw, look how cute!" Bobby said.

"Look how small," Joanna snickered.

Remy rolled his eyes. "Hilarious."

"Why Remy," Joanna said. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean, I can remember the first time I saw you sitting naked in a woman's lap."

"Whoa, Joanna. Over-sharing," Bobby said, returning to his chore.

Logan returned, slamming the screen door shut before the goat could sneak back in.

"If I remember correctly, it was Candra's, wasn't it?" Joanna continued snidely.

"What's Candra's?" Logan asked.

Joanna smiled. "Didn't Remy ever tell you about how we met? How we both worked under Candra back in the day? Well, Remy did most of the work under her, and over her."

"T.M.I.!" Bobby shouted.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about that," Remy said tersely.

"Those were the days. When the job went good, Candra and Remy went at it like a couple of bunny rabbits. When jobs went bad, well, she just beat the holy hell out of him. Both were fun to watch."

"La la la la la!" said Bobby with his hands over his ears. "I can't hear you!"

"Joanna, that's enough," Logan said, slicing his hand through the air.

"Don't you want to find out how your pal here...that we drove all this way to see...royally screwed me in every sense of the word?" Joanna asked loudly, extending her arms out to her sides. "That he used me in one of his stupid little games with Candra where they both competed for the title of World's Biggest Asshole?"

"This ain't the time or the place," Logan snapped.

Remy was shaking his head, eyes closed. "No, dat's fine," he put up his hand to stop Logan from speaking. "It's fine. Joanna, if I haven't said so before, I'm sorry. I don't have any excuse for what I did. I'm sorry your feelings were hurt when you got caught between Candra and me. It was a mistake."

Joanna just seemed to grow angrier. "I don't want your apology! I don't need it! I don't need you crawling to me on your belly like some worthless dog! Why don't you stand up for yourself, you pathetic idiot! Don't you have any pride at all?"

"Is it pride what keeps you from apologizin' for all the stuff you've done?" Remy asked her. "'Cause you don't seem to live like you've got any regrets."

"Don't you dare throw this back on me!" Joanna snapped.

"Let me tell you something you don't know about me, Joanna," Remy added calmly. "That I, more than anyone, want you to succeed as an X-Man. That I want it so bad for you. Now I've put my chips down on you, and you'd better not cost me de pot. I've got my eye on you, believe dat," he pointed at her. "I don't want you t'mess up like I did, but I'm ready if you do. And I'd be happy to hear you say you were sorry for somethin' and just as happy to forgive you. But if you ever hurt another kid again, I will put ..you ..down. That's a promise, and I make no apologies for that."

"You think you-." Joanna began, but she was cut off when Logan seized her arm.

"Drop it!" he commanded.

They were interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming.

"Now what?" Bobby asked.

Remy peered out the window and cursed. He seized the shotgun, but Logan quickly wrested it from his grip. Remy released it with his hands raised in surrender and stepped back from Logan, then slammed himself through the screen door. Bobby joined Logan at the door and peered out. A sheriff's cruiser was parked in the drive. Remy stood on the porch staring down at the man who stepped from the vehicle. The man was dressed in a sheriff's uniform and a wide-brimmed hat. He was of average height and build with a heavy lantern jaw. His eyes were shielded by mirrored sunglasses. A German Shepherd stuck its head out the back window of the vehicle, panting in the heat.

The sheriff walked up to the fence line and stared back at Remy.

"Remy LeBeau," he said finally and then spat.

"What do you want?" Remy said in reply, his tone defiant.

The sheriff sneered at him. "I'm here t'do my duty as an officer and hand you this here eviction notice," he replied. He extended his arm. A piece of yellow paper was held between his fore and middle fingers.

Remy strode down the steps and across the lawn. Before he could take the paper, the sheriff let it drop, and it fluttered to the ground.

"You can't evict me," Remy said, now standing a foot from the sheriff. "Dis here is my house. I'm de executor of Matilde Baptiste's estate."

"Heh," the sheriff said, surveying the property. "Some estate."

"Dis property is worth plenty," Remy snapped.

"Yeah, and I'm sure the developers that now own it payed dearly."

"It ain't for sale," Remy said quietly.

"No, on account of it's sold all ready," the sheriff was enjoying himself.

"We had a deal-," Remy began.

"A deal?" The sheriff spoke incredulously. "Wrong, you punk. The deal I had was with your daddy. I don't make deals with filthy mutie trash such as yourself."

Logan, Bobby, and Joanna were all gathered on the porch. When Joanna heard the epithet, she began to charge down the steps. Logan seized her arm to stop her. The sheriff looked over at the trio with a smug smile then turned back to Remy. "Go ahead, LeBeau. Gimme one excuse to take you or one of your freak friends in. Your poppa's not here to save your ass anymore, or that old nigger witch."

"Wow, way to embody a stereotype," Bobby said, clapping slowly. "Really, that's top notch racism."

The sheriff just shook his head. "They might tolerate you freaks in the city, but out here we do things more traditional. I suggest you get yourself gone, LeBeau." With that, the sheriff turned and walked back to his cruiser.

Joanna broke herself free from Logan's grip and began to follow when Remy spoke up. "That's a fine lookin' dog you got dere, Sheriff Pollard. He got a name?"

The sheriff paused and turned to look back at Remy. He grinned maliciously. "Why thank you. He goes by Rothko," He gave the dog a signal and it leaped from the back of the vehicle. "He's got himself a taste for freaks, don't you boy?" He nudged the dog's shoulder with his knee.

"He looks hungry," Remy said conversationally. "Hey, boy. Hey Rothko, y'want a treat?"

"You're a damned stupid fool," the sheriff said.

"Here boy, who's a good boy den?" Remy said, crouching. The dog studied Remy and cocked his head.

"Uhm," Bobby said to Logan. "Is he doing what I think he's doing?"

"Oo's just a sweet widdle puddy dawg den?" Remy said.

"Yup," Logan answered.

The sheriff pointed and Rothko sprung forward. He came towards Remy in one short bound, then threw himself down onto his forequarters. Hindquarters in the air, the dog wagged his tail and barked excitedly. Remy playfully boxed the dog's head and ruffled his fur while praising the him in baby talk.

"Rothko!" the sheriff barked. "Get back here, you stupid!"

"Does Rothko want a treat? Does he?" Remy said, as the dog gleefully licked his face.

The sheriff stalked over angrily and gave the dog a kick in the hindquarters. In an instant, the dog turned with a snarl and sank his teeth into the sheriff's leg just below the knee. The sheriff screamed and fell backwards as the dog released the leg and lunged for the sheriff's arm.

Remy whistled and the dog jumped back, turned, and ran to Remy's side where it sat and stared at the sheriff.

The sheriff was cursing and reaching for his gun. "You goddamned dog!" he screamed.
"I can't abide the mistreatment of harmless animals," Remy said to him.

The sheriff scrambled to his feet. "You freak sonofabitch!" he screamed as he backed away towards his vehicle. "You get off this property and get the hell out of town! Don't ever show your face around here again!"

"Sure, I'd be happy to watch after Rothko for awhile," Remy said with a wave. "You have yourself a pleasant day, officer!"

(Next time: Iceman & Frenzy get a lesson in Thief culture)