Review: For now, a beginning to a ROMY with fluff ahead and, of course,
obstacles for our favorite X-Couple.
Disclaimer: I owe very little, and the characters in this story are just
some of the things I do NOT owe (though I do have a Gambit Action Figure,
it's very nice).
Rating: G for now
Be sure to REVIEW, as this is my first try at this...
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***
The keys turned and the engine stopped. The proud red and black Harley that prowled the streets of New York at top speeds just a few minutes ago was now silent. Dead.
The rider kicked out the stand and took a quick look at his beauty before flicking his dying cigarette to the ground.
At leas' I understand you, he thought as his eyes wandered over the bike's shimmering body. "C'est all mechanics wit' you. A minor adjus'ment here, oilin' there, a bit o' love and you run like a gem. If only women were that simple, eh ma chére?" As he said this he drew another cigarette from the pack he kept in the inside pocket of his old, dark brown duster. "Such a dirty habit, you really should quit, Remy," he muttered to himself as he lit the new cigarette that now dangled between his lips. "Phaa, now you talkin' like her! You really need to get 'way from that girl." But even as he said these words, he knew he couldn't. Rogue had been a part of his life for years now. And though it wasn't difficult for him to forget about a girl, Rogue was one he could never seem to shake out of his head.
He gazed down on the city from the top of this small hill. The hill he always came to when his mind was overflowing. He thought about her and realized that this time, it was his heart that was overflowing, not his mind. The lights shinning out from all the homes and businesses that were still up and running at two in the morning reminded him of the sparkles in her eyes. The slight fragrance of flowers in the air was shockingly similar to her perfume.
"You poor fool. So many o'der chéres out der, you pick da one you can't have."
Remy LeBeau, or Gambit as he is known by friends and foe alike, is a mutant. Thanks to a defective gene, know as the "X" gene, Remy has the ability to charge small objects (sometimes large ones too) with kinetic energy. This energy is released in the form of explosions. There are many types of mutants, for the "X" gene adapts differently to each individual who carries it. Some, like Remy, could hide their "gifts" by slight, or no alterations, if the need should arise. In others, the "X" gene affects the outward appearance. Strange skin colors, feathers, fur, scales, or other such deformities make it impossible for these unfortunate souls to go out in public without being recognized as mutants. Due to their special powers and odd looks, mutants are feared by many "normal" humans. As we have learned throughout the course of time and history, fear, more often than not, leads to hatred. This hatred is experienced by many, if not all, mutants around the world. The hatred from some "normals" is so strong that torching buildings, publicly beating mutants (or muties as they call them), and other violent acts were common. All too common. This led to the separation of mutants into two very different groups. Those who believe they are superior to humans thought mutants were the next step in the evolutionary ladder, and therefore humans must be eliminated. Others believe that if they work long and hard enough, humans and mutants could live together in harmony.
Remy didn't know if he fit in to either of these groups. But for now, he fought for peace, for good, for her.
To look at him this night, as he stood gazing over the city, one would not think this a very dangerous man. He was not tall, nor bulging with muscles, though it was clear he spent a bit more than his fair share of time in the gym. His eyes were covered with black sunglasses. He wore these not only to shield his sensitive eyes from the light, but to shield the looks and comments of others which occasionally got on his nerves. If, by chance, he were to remove these shades and a person were to look into Remy's face, the viewer would find a pair of blood-red on black eyes staring back. This was the one evidence of Remy's mutant powers. When Remy became infuriated, his eyes would appear to be colored not by pigments, but by flames, blazing inside his red pupils. Yet now, as he stood on this hill, he was not in the least bit upset. Only lost in thought. And so, if someone was to pass by, they would see what looked to be a mere human male, in a deep state of wonder. Only if this imaginary viewer were to attack Remy would they learn (and learn quickly) how wrong they were to assume him harmless.
Remy LeBeau grew up in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The only family he had ever known was a gang called the Thieves' Guild. Remy knew of no true mother or father in the biological sense. Even if he wanted to find them, the odds were stacked against him. He did not know if he had been abandoned and left for dead, as the Guild leaders told him, or kidnapped from a happy home like other acquaintances of his had suggested. It mattered not. Either way, Remy grew up calling Jean-Luc, the man who claimed to have found him, "father." He lived on the streets. His "family" taught him basic survival tips like stealing, hiding, running, fighting, and when to do what. Remy was a fast learner. By the age of seven, he was one of the best pickpockets around. He continued this line of work for years, yet was never caught. Remy had no police record, and he aimed to keep it that way. By giving up the art of thievery? No. By advancing his already fine-tuned art of escaping the not-quite-long-enough arm of the law.
Remy's problems were not with the law, but with that other "L" word. The four letter one. The one that means so much to so many. The one used in a plethora of songs and poems. Love. The word scared the brave man. He had known many women, true, but did he love them? That was a different question entirely.
The Cajun had three passions: stealing, women, and Harleys. Of these, the only one that gave him any trouble was figuring out women. Theft was an art he had mastered over the years. With a little research and a wad of cash, he bought his first Harley at the age of seventeen. Women he had never understood. In all his twenty-six years, women had been a mystery, and he had a feeling they would remain as thus for the rest of his life.
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*** That's it for now, more to come soon though, the sooner you review, the sooner it comes! ~YllisBellaDonna~
The keys turned and the engine stopped. The proud red and black Harley that prowled the streets of New York at top speeds just a few minutes ago was now silent. Dead.
The rider kicked out the stand and took a quick look at his beauty before flicking his dying cigarette to the ground.
At leas' I understand you, he thought as his eyes wandered over the bike's shimmering body. "C'est all mechanics wit' you. A minor adjus'ment here, oilin' there, a bit o' love and you run like a gem. If only women were that simple, eh ma chére?" As he said this he drew another cigarette from the pack he kept in the inside pocket of his old, dark brown duster. "Such a dirty habit, you really should quit, Remy," he muttered to himself as he lit the new cigarette that now dangled between his lips. "Phaa, now you talkin' like her! You really need to get 'way from that girl." But even as he said these words, he knew he couldn't. Rogue had been a part of his life for years now. And though it wasn't difficult for him to forget about a girl, Rogue was one he could never seem to shake out of his head.
He gazed down on the city from the top of this small hill. The hill he always came to when his mind was overflowing. He thought about her and realized that this time, it was his heart that was overflowing, not his mind. The lights shinning out from all the homes and businesses that were still up and running at two in the morning reminded him of the sparkles in her eyes. The slight fragrance of flowers in the air was shockingly similar to her perfume.
"You poor fool. So many o'der chéres out der, you pick da one you can't have."
Remy LeBeau, or Gambit as he is known by friends and foe alike, is a mutant. Thanks to a defective gene, know as the "X" gene, Remy has the ability to charge small objects (sometimes large ones too) with kinetic energy. This energy is released in the form of explosions. There are many types of mutants, for the "X" gene adapts differently to each individual who carries it. Some, like Remy, could hide their "gifts" by slight, or no alterations, if the need should arise. In others, the "X" gene affects the outward appearance. Strange skin colors, feathers, fur, scales, or other such deformities make it impossible for these unfortunate souls to go out in public without being recognized as mutants. Due to their special powers and odd looks, mutants are feared by many "normal" humans. As we have learned throughout the course of time and history, fear, more often than not, leads to hatred. This hatred is experienced by many, if not all, mutants around the world. The hatred from some "normals" is so strong that torching buildings, publicly beating mutants (or muties as they call them), and other violent acts were common. All too common. This led to the separation of mutants into two very different groups. Those who believe they are superior to humans thought mutants were the next step in the evolutionary ladder, and therefore humans must be eliminated. Others believe that if they work long and hard enough, humans and mutants could live together in harmony.
Remy didn't know if he fit in to either of these groups. But for now, he fought for peace, for good, for her.
To look at him this night, as he stood gazing over the city, one would not think this a very dangerous man. He was not tall, nor bulging with muscles, though it was clear he spent a bit more than his fair share of time in the gym. His eyes were covered with black sunglasses. He wore these not only to shield his sensitive eyes from the light, but to shield the looks and comments of others which occasionally got on his nerves. If, by chance, he were to remove these shades and a person were to look into Remy's face, the viewer would find a pair of blood-red on black eyes staring back. This was the one evidence of Remy's mutant powers. When Remy became infuriated, his eyes would appear to be colored not by pigments, but by flames, blazing inside his red pupils. Yet now, as he stood on this hill, he was not in the least bit upset. Only lost in thought. And so, if someone was to pass by, they would see what looked to be a mere human male, in a deep state of wonder. Only if this imaginary viewer were to attack Remy would they learn (and learn quickly) how wrong they were to assume him harmless.
Remy LeBeau grew up in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The only family he had ever known was a gang called the Thieves' Guild. Remy knew of no true mother or father in the biological sense. Even if he wanted to find them, the odds were stacked against him. He did not know if he had been abandoned and left for dead, as the Guild leaders told him, or kidnapped from a happy home like other acquaintances of his had suggested. It mattered not. Either way, Remy grew up calling Jean-Luc, the man who claimed to have found him, "father." He lived on the streets. His "family" taught him basic survival tips like stealing, hiding, running, fighting, and when to do what. Remy was a fast learner. By the age of seven, he was one of the best pickpockets around. He continued this line of work for years, yet was never caught. Remy had no police record, and he aimed to keep it that way. By giving up the art of thievery? No. By advancing his already fine-tuned art of escaping the not-quite-long-enough arm of the law.
Remy's problems were not with the law, but with that other "L" word. The four letter one. The one that means so much to so many. The one used in a plethora of songs and poems. Love. The word scared the brave man. He had known many women, true, but did he love them? That was a different question entirely.
The Cajun had three passions: stealing, women, and Harleys. Of these, the only one that gave him any trouble was figuring out women. Theft was an art he had mastered over the years. With a little research and a wad of cash, he bought his first Harley at the age of seventeen. Women he had never understood. In all his twenty-six years, women had been a mystery, and he had a feeling they would remain as thus for the rest of his life.
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*** That's it for now, more to come soon though, the sooner you review, the sooner it comes! ~YllisBellaDonna~