Neverland. It was a far cry from the magical place in the famous children's story. There were no pirates, or mermaids, or Lost Boys, and Remy LeBeau was a far cry from Peter Pan.
Known as Gambit to some, Remy was a mutant; born with abilities that set him apart from the rest of society. Never quite accepted into the world, a world that hated and feared his kind and because of that fear a mutant who, like countless others, was hunted down and sent away to Neverland.
No, it wasn't anything like the storybook. Considered by many to be the mutant equivalent of Auschwitz, Neverland was the last stop for many after being captured by Sentinel Services and rarely mentioned out loud.
Its reputation was one of mystery and horror. And Gambit was getting a first-hand account.
His neck was stiff and the space behind his eyes beat like a steel drum after his run-in with the Marauders in Seattle. They were mutant thugs who had been set on his trail after Sentinel Services had their fill of getting bettered by the thief from New Orleans. While Gambit had little issues with the authorities though, the Marauders had proven too much for him. Especially Creed.
That man was a monster. A rabid mountain lion stuffed into the skin of a man. He enjoyed inflicting pain; he reveled in the kill and he was the one leading the charge like a starved bloodhound on a fox hunt.
It didn't take much for Gambit to realize he was outmatched and he'd surrendered to the others he had in tow, if nothing else, to deny Creed of the morbid satisfaction of more bloodshed.
Gambit winced, partly from the pain in his forehead, but also from the memory of not learning his lesson fast enough. He shook the thought away almost as quickly as it formed and approached the dull, iron bars.
He couldn't see much from his vantage point but what little he did was enough to set his expectations nice and low. It had a grey on grey concrete colour scheme, complete with its fair share of flickering neon lights, bars, and armed guards. The air was stale, but carried the faint trace of decay, a sickly sweet aroma that was unmistakable.
The thief panned his head from side to side and frowned. Among the many troubling details was something that stood out by its absence. It took him a minute longer than it should have.
Noise. Or rather, the lack of it.
There were several captives in his vicinity, he could see them huddled in a few of the cells across from his own, but unlike a prison, no one spoke. No one so much as whispered.
It was a pervasive silence so unnerving that a chill crept up his spine like a thousand icy spiders. Even the guards observed it. It was a palpable and choking quiet and he did everything he could to play along.
A figure stomped along, headed in his direction, he had no doubt. Gambit looked up and around and in the back corner of his ten-by-ten cell and mounted into the ceiling was a small aperture with a dark, dome-shaped cover. A camera and they'd no doubt been alerted when he woke up.
The guard didn't waste any energy and appeared from just out of view around the corner. He looked like your average gun-toting security goon in unmarked camouflage fatigues. No rank; no insignia of any kind.
Gambit had always been quick to fire back at a foe with wit with a lesser-faire attitude but his snappy retort barely had a chance to pass his lips. A white-hot needle of debilitating pain burrowed right into his brain. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even blink as his muscles all contorted with a single gut twisting spasm. He was frozen in that agonizing moment and stared back at his captor.
The guard smiled; finger on a handheld remote.
When his thumb finally raised, the pain subsided and Gambit gasped, freed at once from the terrible claw that had threatened to stop his heart. Given a moment of relief and he threw his hands to his neck to claw at the ring that was securely locked around his throat; a collar that had seconds before sent an electric current through his skull.
A collar, like he was some kind of animal.
Cold defiance bled away into seething anger and Gambit thrust his hand into his beat-up brown duster into a pocket in the lining. In flash of movement, it reappeared with a playing card pinched between his fingers. The guard didn't flinch. He kept that vulture's smile on his stone-cold face, but no punishment followed.
Gambit's red and black eyes darted from the man in the blank uniform to the worthless ten of diamonds that he brandished like a weapon. Gambit, born with the otherworldly ability to manipulate and convert the potential energy of an object into kinetic energy, had been rendered powerless; and all he could do at that moment, face to face with his tormentor, was fall to his knees and accept his fate like a whipped dog.
He didn't notice the guard leaving and after who knows how long, he finally willed himself to move. Slowly, Gambit slid himself to the back of the cell and propped his back up against the wall with his arms stretched out over his knees while his mind was hard at work.
His gaze burned into the card that lay on the floor. He didn't realize it at first, but his jaw had been clenched hard through that ordeal. His teeth ached and he absentmindedly rubbed at his jaw.
Footsteps. Gambit narrowed his demonic eyes as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The footfalls were distinct and sharper than the heavy, padded steps of the combat boots. It was the clacking of harder soles. Dress shoes.
The wearer was still out of sight but they approached with a speedy gait, alone.
Gambit stroked the darkening patch of stubble on his chin again, then slid out of his jacket to cool off. With care, he bundled up his trench coat and set it next to him on the floor, then passed his fingers quickly through the sweat-streaked cheek-length hair that had tumbled in front of his eyes.
Let's see who we got to thank for such warm hospitality, he thought, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
