Curiosity
Chapter 2: Intrigue
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! LOLConquistadorImp, don't hurt the bunny! And nevermindthebuttocks, love the name! I've decided to write on, but I'm being deliberately vague, as I haven't an answer to my own question yet/p
I'm picking this up from the beginning again here, this time from Remy's point of view. I'm doing this because I'm mixing comic and cartoon canon, and I want to give you, the reader, some idea of Gambit's back story according to my own twisted universe (Gambit meets Storm when he rescues her younger self from the Nanny, but he doesn't/has yet to follow her to the X-Men, as he did in the comic, and if you're not familiar with his history with Sinister, the Marauders and the Morlocks, I'll be getting into that later as well)
The evening sun streamed through a gap in the heavy drapes, filtering lazily through slow eddies of smoke. The shadows were deep, as if the sun itself struggled to penetrate the secrets of the ancient structure, with its massive timbers and rough-hewn stone. A red glow simmered in the darkness, echoed briefly by two brief flares.
The man stood motionless, blending seamlessly with the growing shadows, the forgotten cigarette dangling limply from his lips. Remy LeBeau was a man with more than a few skeletons in his closet, a man who was well accustomed to having the demons of his past come back to haunt him.
It had been only a few short years since he'd first run across Ororo Munroe, rescuing the little street thief from the clutches of the vile mutant who'd sought to control her mind and her heart and her powers.
The phone call had surprised him. Remy had been wandering the globe aimlessly, chasing the tattered remnants of his former band as much as he was running from the fallout of that too-brief alliance with the Assassin's Guild. Not that he would admit to it. How the Goddess had managed to track him down, he would never know. He was not accustomed to being caught off guard.
What was the old saying? It takes a thief to catch a thief.
Remy's eyes flared in the stark blackness; the sun had long since set while he stood unmoving, considering his next move. He sighed, dislodging the thick tail of ash from the end of his cigarette. His mind had been made up before he'd even replaced the receiver.
He never could resist a damsel in distress.
Remy could feel the tension in the air, a heady, hypnotic thrum of potential energy. The vibrations rippled through him, energizing his body; he found himself pacing the entryway, his body acting unconsciously on the potential surging around him.
Gambit was a creature of energy, drinking in its seductive potential and feeding off its tangible pull; it pulsed and eddied around him, surrounding him and coating him like the smoke from a fine cigar. It was intoxicating, and it called to him.
The cards disappeared back into his pocket with a deft flick of his wrist; it was a nervous habit of his, one of the few he allowed himself. Gambit never tipped his hand, never dropped his poker face. He didn't stop his pacing. He knew why he was on edge. Most of humanity showed up on his "radar" as background noise – he could sense the warp and the weave of the energy that flowed through their bodies, but it was like listening to a distant conversation. It required conscious effort. Mutants, on the other hand . . . some of them were almost invisible to his enhanced perception, only showing up when their powers manifested themselves.
Storm, he remembered, was a quiet, dangerous hum, slowly weaving its speculative dissonance through the trees and the air and the mountains. She was the power of the rain and the lightning and all of the tumultuous seasons; when she opened her arms and her eyes and called on those forces . . . it was a blinding light, a deafening roar of energy.
He could feel her song, joined with the thronging clamor that permeated the manor house. Gambit had never been surrounded by this much living, breathing power. It confounded him, this vibration that hummed on its own, singing its own song . . . his power was about potential, awakening the sleeping forces in the inanimate objects around him, but this force lived of its own accord, its vibrant, chaotic potential assaulting his senses, throwing him off balance.
He should have noticed it before, that dull prickling sensation raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He was being watched. He spun, a card appearing between his gloved fingers in a motion so practiced it transcended conscious thought. Instinct. A matter of survival, for a man of his . . . talents. His eyes locked on the threat.
The card disappeared just as quickly as he'd drawn it, and he stopped to take in the two girls at the end of the hallway. Jumping at shadows. The taller one was eyeing him with undisguised interest, her green eyes blazing through a veil of twisted auburn and platinum curls. He smiled, the smallest quirk of his lips, and he forced open his shields. Just for a moment, he felt her curiosity, desire and defiant challenge threading through the tumultuous mix. His eyes flared briefly as he reached out, combing through the tangled mess and drawing out the curiosity, the desire. If the girl with her noticed anything unusual about her friend's sudden hypnosis, her emotions didn't betray her.
"Remy!"
His shields snapped back into place, a thin sheen of perspiration dotting his brow as he spun to greet the goddess waiting at the top of the steps. She was a far cry indeed from the child he'd rescued, an exotically tall beauty with caramel skin and opalescent hair and an air of confidence, of command. A strong woman, a woman accustomed to being obeyed.
"Stormy!Dieu,cherie, y'quite a sight for dese sore eyes," he smiled. A discrete glance down the hall confirmed that the girls had left; he smiled to himself, dashing up the steps to greet Storm properly.
"Y'miss me?" He asked cheekily, raising her hand to his lips in a courtly gesture, trying to shake the girl from his thoughts. Whatever possessed her to put skunk stripes in her hair? Kids these days . . .
"Remy, I'm so glad you came," she said. Her eyes were warm, sincere in her gratitude. She hadn't been certain of his reaction to being tracked down.
"How c'd I resist?" He smiled, a devilish smirk. "Y'hurt me,cherie . . . t'ought at least I get a phone call, a letter from y' . . . but non,de femmes, dey only call Gambit when dey want somet'ing." She didn't miss the mischievous glint in his eyes, the playful quirk of his lips.
She snorted with amusement; Ororo was well aware of what 'de femmes' usually wanted from Gambit, and she was pretty sure that he was the one that did the calling. She supposed that she should be honored, that he had let her find him, that he had traveled so far on just her word that she needed his help.
Remy stifled a sigh as the man rambled on about discretion and circumspection, which he supposed was intended to reassure him that the X-Men would not summarily hand him over to the police, and about the X-Men themselves, how each member brought their own 'unique skills' to the team.
The Professor's study was well-appointed, luxurious without being crass or overbearing. He noted, with a thief's eye, the 16th century Japanese woodblock above the mantel and the 18th century bronze statue of Kali on his desk. Interesting choice for a man of peace.
"So . . . y'want me t'steal somet'ing?"
The man didn't react, not a flicker of annoyance or impatience playing across his inscrutable countenance. Quite a poker face, Remy mused, his mind straying back to the girl with the elbow-high gloves and the platinum-streaked hair. Storm managed to hide her amused smile behind her hand, disguising the motion as a yawn.
Remy was not fooled. He spared her a hurt look before turning back to the bald man sitting before him, fingers steepled in front of him. Professor Charles Xavier, the leader of the mutant X-Men. Gambit had heard of this man, had done his homework on the X-Men back when he was still heir to the Thieves' Guild.
"Gambit, the X-Men strive to relieve the tensions mounting between mutants and humanity, to bring a stop to the coming war. Make no mistake, there are parties on both sides that are pushing for conflict. Storm has shared little with me about your past." He paused, and Gambit was sure that remark was also intended to reassure him. "Nonetheless, we are aware of certain . . . talents . . . that you possess, which would be extremely useful to our cause," he said delicately.
He seemed to expect something, some sort of response from Gambit.
"Y'want me t'blow somet'ing up?" he hazarded. Gambit was fairly certain that the Professor knew not only of his skills as a thief, but of his mutant powers. He kept his face carefully blank as he felt the Professor probe his shields, the faintest brush against that wall he'd worked so hard to build.
It seemed the other man was tiring of the little game they were playing.
"I noticed you admiring that statue of Kali."
Gambit let the barest hint of a smirk drift across his features. "Habit," he drawled unapologetically.
"Did you know that for centuries, Kali was worshipped as a figure of destruction and chaos? The dark counterpart to her consort, Shiva . . . a balancing force of nature. Darkness in the female realm to counter lightness in the male." He watched Gambit carefully, looking for any sort of reaction. "During the eighteenth century, Bengali tradition began to revere Kali as a mother figure – uniting the two forces in one figure. Good and evil, creation and chaos in one being."
Gambit wondered if he was going somewhere with this. Light and dark, platinum and auburn . . . focus, man!
"She reminds me of the struggle within all of us," he sighed quietly, and Gambit could swear he aged in that moment, the weariness written clearly in the deep lines of his face, in the slight falter to his voice.
"Philosophy's a little over de head of dis simple t'ief," Gambit said slowly.
"Gambit, there is a war coming. Already, the first battles are being planned, staged carefully by those whose interests favor a conflict. We need your help, Gambit, your particular skills in negotiation and leadership, as well as your singular reputation among the . . ." He trailed off, searching for the words.
"Me reputation among de t'ieves, de criminal elemen'."
The barest twitch of his steepled fingers acknowledged Gambit's blunt interjection.
"We won't ask you to do anything you're uncomfortable with," Storm chimed in, her throaty voice an odd counterpart to the professor's gravelly tones.
"There are many players in this game, Gambit, and I have every confidence that with your experience, you can help us sort this out. There was a mutant group called the Morlocks, living in the subway system. Cast out by society, they lived underground, banding together for comfort and safety, stealing to live."
Gambit kept his features carefully schooled, wondering just how much this man knew about him.
"The Morlocks were slaughtered – by a team of mutants. We don't yet know why, but we have reason to believe that the perpetrators – a band called the Marauders – were organized by a man known as Sinister. Most of the survivors fled the city. We were able to persuade several of them to take up residence here, but after the recent terrorist attacks against the Morlocks remaining in the subways, they disappeared. We believe they answered a call to arms. The Morlocks are recruiting, their numbers swelling – and it seems as if they are no longer a peaceful, self-contained band of exiles. They are training, organizing . . . retaliating."
Still no hint of a reaction betrayed the features of the enigmatic thief. The two men sat in contemplation, neither saying anything to break the heavy silence.
"What d'you need me t'do?"
The Professor's eyes unfocused briefly, his face blank, as if he was staring into the distance. He smiled, nodding vaguely to Storm. "I'll let Ororo fill you in on the details."
It was a clear dismissal. Gambit stood to follow the goddess from the room.
"Your past cannot haunt you forever Gambit. The X-Men are about forgiveness, absolution."
Gambit spun to face the man, his silhouette darkening the doorway, wondering if his demon eyes betrayed his thoughts to the telepath. There was nothing blank or vague about the other man's expression. He stared at the Professor for a long time before responding. "P'haps," he said mildly, turning to follow Storm down the hallway.
"What is dis place?" Gambit's voice betrayed wonder and confusion.
"This is the dining hall." Storm hid her slight smile. The school could be overwhelming at first, from the sheer size and scale of the building – Storm's smile deepened slightly when she imagined the thief's reaction to the carefully concealed tunnels and the basement caverns – to the inhabitants themselves, mutants of all ages, shapes, and colors. Use of powers was forbidden in the common areas such as the dining hall, which meant, of course, that they were surrounded by dazzling, poorly-concealed displays of power.
"You get used to it," she said softly, leading him into the throng.
Gambit wondered if she had any idea of the riotous clamor of harnessed energy overwhelming his senses, each thread a voice raised in song, the shrill dissonance beautiful in its own right.
He followed Storm as she wove her way deftly through the crowd, acknowledging the occasional student with a wave or a nod.
"What's for lunch, Stormy?"
"I believe it's hamburger day- there are, of course, vegan and vegetarian options if you are so inclined," she said flippantly, gesturing toward a well-appointed salad bar. "And don't call me Stormy."
Gambit followed her lead, putting together his burger and wandering over to the condiment bar. "Don't s'pose y'got anyt'ing wit' a bit more . . . personality," he asked hopefully, eyeing the bottles of ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard with distaste. A single bottle of Tabasco sauce sat to the side, unnoticed and unused.
"Don' know what d'hell y'tink m'sposed t'do ta m'burger wit de mayonnaise, dat's what we call sacrilege in m'neck o'de woods," he muttered under his breath, his accent becoming more pronounced with his agitation.
"I'm afraid what you see is what you get, for now, but I can pass your objections on to the cook," she said with a tolerant smile, reaching for the mustard.
They sat in companionably silence, focusing on the food. Gambit hadn't realized how hungry he was; the plane ride from France, the passage through customs, and the journey from the airport . . . it had been almost 24 hours since he'd eaten last. His stomach growled in protest as he numbly choked down the bland hamburger, draining the last of his lemonade in an attempt to wash the thing down.
"Cherie, y'need a refill on dat drink?"
"Always the gentleman, Remy," she said, shaking her head as he stood.
He wove his way back to the drink line with a practiced ease; the first thing he learned as a thief was how to blend with a crowd, to move as he wished without disturbing the flow of people around him.
Something soft collided with his chest, bouncing back and landing on the hardwood floor with a distinct thud. So much for stealth and skill, he thought wryly, looking down to survey the damage.
His eyes flared as they traveled over the girl at his feet, tangled auburn curls tumbling in disarray over her face. He reached out again, tugging gently on her curiosity, nurturing the thread of intrigue weaving through the rest of the tangle.
"Are y'all right, cherie?"
She looked up at his, glaring at his outstretched hand before swatting it away with a gloved hand.
"Watch where ya goin'. An don' touch me." She pushed herself to her feet, turning and stalking from the room. He noticed how the crowd parted before her, the other students unconsciously avoiding her as she made a beeline for the door.
"Pardon, ladies," he nodded to the girls at the table; one of them had been with the girl earlier. He smiled to himself, making a note to find out her name. Shouldn't be difficult, with those flashing green eyes and that distinctive white stripe in her auburn curls. She had a taste of the South on her tongue, a lilting drawl that promised sugar and spice and reminded him of home. There was nothing like a Southern belle with fire.
