Chapter 3
"I'm starting to remember how it feels to be in school," said Kurt, dropping into a chair around the now-cleared dining room table with his fellow students. Schoolbooks were scattered where the serving dishes had been.
"How does it feel?" asked Bobby.
"Sore," said Kurt. "Before-school training with Logan, school, after-school training with Scott. I'm going to be even sorer tomorrow and I'll have to do it all again. Wilkommen to my life."
"It's good for ya," said Rogue. She was highlighting passages at random in the first chapter of Crime and Punishment.
"Easy for you to say, Vonder Voman."
"Kurt!" Kitty snapped.
An awkward silence suddenly fell across the table, the way it always did when someone mentioned Rogue's new powers when she was in the room. Rogue resisted the urge to groan and just leave so they could have yet another whispered, worried conversation in private. But she was so, so tired of stumbling into those conversations.
"Kitty, it ain't lahk Ah have cancer. They're just powers. Just like we all have. Mah powers."
"But they're not your powers!" Kitty answered, almost stumbling over the words in her rush to get them out before she lost her nerve. "Where did they come from, Rogue? Just tell us. Whatever it is, it's so much worse not knowing."
Now everybody was blatantly listening. Rogue hated being the center of attention, but there didn't to be any way out of it now. But she spoke just to Kitty, pretending that the rest of the X-Men were somewhere far away.
"Ah don't know. Ah cain't remember. But the Professor knows, and he says it's all right. Can't that just be enough for you? Can't y'all just let it lie? I've got the powers and that's that. No use worrying about what Ah can't change, even if Ah wanted to."
"You don't want things to go back to normal?"
Rogue turned in her chair for the only X-Men in the room who might understand: Cannonball and Sunspot. "Sam, Roberto . . . would you give up flyin', if you could?"
Sam shook his head. "Not for anything."
"No way," echoed Roberto.
Rogue turned back to Kitty. "There ya go. This settled yet?"
Reluctantly, Kitty nodded.
Kurt fidgeted in his seat. He was always uncomfortable when other people were upset, and was always quick to propose cheering plans. "Vell, if it's settled, zen I sink it's time for a pool party. First night with everybody back, no real homework . . . last one in the vater's a rotten egg." And, suiting action to the word, he was gone in a puff of rotten-egg-scented smoke.
And suddenly everyone was smiling again. And as Rogue raced Kitty upstairs to get their bathing suits, Kitty phasing and Rogue flying, no one followed her movements with worried eyes.
Within minutes, the pool was full of splashing X-Men. The noise disturbed the teachers from their after-dinner meeting, and once Kurt pushed Jean into the water an all-out war erupted with abandon. Even Professor Xavier ended up with water across his shirt. The only person who didn't get wet was Storm, because everyone there knew better than to challenge Storm in a waterfight.
Scott stood off to one side as the fight went on, smiling at his teammates but staying well out of range of any roughhousing that could dislodge his visor. Only Rogue, staying on the edge of the battle herself, noticed him. She shook her head, smiling. Careful, cautious Scott. She and Scott shared the sad bond of being the only two Institute students that were truly handicapped by their powers. They'd always been friends because of that, quietly understanding and trusting one another in a way that the rest of the team, even Jean, couldn't share in. He'd brought her to this house, and the freedom that she'd found here. It seemed unfair that she could fly while he, who deserved it so much more, couldn't.
Well, darn it, he would today.
Rogue sailed up out of the pool, swung over Scott's head, and grabbed him under the arms from behind. "Hope that sweater's washable," she told him as she pulled him off the ground.
"Rogue!" he protested, but she could hear that he was both gasping and laughing. His legs flailed awkwardly against nothing. Rogue was always surprised by how ungainly people could be, even normally graceful people, when they were airborne. "Hey! Put me down!"
"Clear the deep end!" Rogue shouted. Ray, Sam, and Amara scrambled out of the way. "You gotta show us how they surf in Hawaii."
"I don't know how they surf in Hawaii! I tried about twenty times and I could never stay up."
"Gee," said Rogue as he twisted awkwardly in her grip. "Wonder why."
And she dropped him.
He landed with a tremendous splash, and came to the surface spluttering, his clothes drenched and dragging him down. But he was laughing. And so was everyone else.
And so, Rogue realized, was she.
Perhaps everything would be all right after all.
The Morlock tunnels felt more like home than anywhere Gambit had been in a long, long time.
The darkness and humidity had the same feel as a Louisiana bayou, where he'd gone for solitude when he was young. But unlike his former residence, this wasn't a place people got exiled from. This was where the exiled ended up.
The Morlocks were a ragtag bunch. They were of every age and background, from young children to hunched old men and women. Nearly all of them were visibly mutated, with reptilian features or distorted proportions or horns or tails or spikes. Five of them were lying next to an oil-barrel fire, bundled up in ragged blankets on stained and torn old mattresses, convulsing with coughs. Callisto immediately sat down among them and began measuring out the Robitussen. Within fifteen minutes, all five of the patients were asleep.
Callisto introduced him to the clan and explained how he'd helped her, and Gambit immediately found himself seated on two flattened couch cushions next to another fire, which was burning in the other half of the sawed-off oil barrel, conversing with the other Morlocks who clustered around the light and warmth. He was welcome here—more welcome than he'd been anywhere in ages.
No one asked him where he'd come from or why he was there. This seemed to be considered poor manners. But no one seemed to feel any embarrassment at staring at, and even touching, his face and hands and hair. He was much more human in appearance than most of his hosts, and they seemed fascinated by him: the dark peach color of his skin, the five fingers on each of his hands, the roundness of his ears and squareness of his teeth and natural red-brown color of his hair. Only his eyes seemed to be of no interest to anybody.
Callisto came and sat next to him as soon as she'd put away her new stockpile of supplies and checked that all of the sufferers were asleep.
"Quite a place you have down here," Gambit told her. He meant it as a compliment, and she took it that way.
"It's hard," she admitted, "but we do all right with what we have."
"Mind if I ask y'somethin'?"
"You can ask. I might not answer."
"Why do y'all go it on your own down here? Dey's a big mansion and a whole lot of money in dis town fo' mutants who need it. Why're yeh here an' not enjoyin' central heatin' in de Xavier Institute?"
Callisto snorted. "Everything has a price."
"Sans doubte."
Callisto turned and called into the darkness. "Evan!"
"What?"
From a small side tunnel off the main chamber appeared a familiar, glowering face. Gambit allowed his eyebrows to raise a little as he surveyed the young man he'd known as Spyke. "Well, hello, Prickles. We was wonderin' where you ended up."
"That's none of our business," said Spyke.
His snarling was much more effective than it had once been, in part because his voice had grown deeper and in part because he'd grown a set of armored plates across his entire upper body. Even Gambit, who had a very low opinion of the headstrong and hot-tempered ex-X-Man, felt vaguely intimidated.
"Gambit wants to know why we're all here instead of in the Xavier Mansion swimming in the pool every afternoon," said Callisto. "I thought you were the best one to answer."
"Why are you interested in the Xavier Mansion?" Spyke demanded. "And why are you interested in us?"
"Because you're interesting," Gambit retorted. "I ain't on Magneto's payroll dese days, if dat's what's worryin' yeh."
"Magento's supposed to be dead."
"Well, dat would explain why my paycheck stopped comin'."
"All are welcome here," said Callisto sternly. "You know that, Evan. Old scores stay aboveground."
Spyke, still looking annoyed, but pacified by Gambit's assurances, sat down at the other side of the fire.
"I'm interested in de Xavier Mansion," said Gambit, figuring that a show of good faith would be worth his while, "because dat's where I'm headed. I got an invitation from de Professor a while back. I'd like to know what's waitin' fo' me dere."
"A lotta problems," said Evan sulkily.
"Dat was real specific. T'anks."
Evan sighed, and his armor plates rattled softly against one another as his chest expanded and contracted. "Professor Xavier set up his school to train X-Men. They're like . . . like an advertisement, like a present to the world to show that we come in peace. So they've got to be perfect. Perfect students, perfect soldiers, perfect kids. And once they're perfect, he sends them out to risk their lives protecting ordinary humans—humans who are stupid and cruel and could never imagine working that hard, humans who hate them. So if it's okay to put the best mutants in the world into the line of fire to protect any stupid human, then . . . well, what are we? If the best of us will always be worth less than the worst of them?
"But down here, mutant lives are worth protecting. Down here we mean something, even if it's just to each other. And I like living in the sewers and liking myself better than living in a mansion and taking flak from mutant-hating freaks every day."
He settled into sullen silence, as if he expected Gambit to disagree with him. But Gambit only nodded. "I appreciate dat. Merci."
"Why are you going?" Callisto asked.
"I was invited."
"Being invited doesn't mean you have to go."
Gambit shrugged. "I'm goin'."
Callisto let it drop.
One of the smaller Morlock children chose that moment to jump up on Gambit's back and pull on his hair, probably to see if it was a wig. Gambit pulled her up over his shoulder and into his lap, gave her a brief, thorough tickling, and let her go.
And suddenly every child in the clan realized what Gambit was. He was an adult who still had the energy to play.
He was swarmed by seven or eight kids, all of them climbing on him, tickling him, pulling on his clothes, trying to dig through his pockets. In their manic laughter, he could hear how much they craved contact and attention. And because he knew what it was to be a child among stressed and unhappy adults, because he needed to laugh as much as they did, because having his pockets picked necessitated retaliation, Gambit played back.
Somewhere amongst the tickling, pulling, jumping, tossing, shrieking, giggling, and shouting, one little boy's flailing foot dislodged the disc adhered to Gambit's back. It slid out the hem of his shirt and fell onto the gritty cement floor, and no one noticed it.
Rogue's hair was still wet, but now it smelled of shampoo instead of chlorine. She climbed into bed and dropped onto her pillow, not minding the damp spot she knew she'd leave. It would dry by morning.
Across the room, Kitty was weaving her own damp hair into a braid. She claimed that this was to keep it from tangling, but Rogue knew how thrilled Kitty would be to wake up and find her head covered in brunette waves. Not that it would happen. Kitty's hair was going to be dead straight until the day she died.
"So I saw Lance today," said Kitty.
"Mm-hm." Rogue closed her eyes and pulled the covers up to her chin. Lance was not one of her favorite subjects these days, but Kitty had yet to notice her roommate's lack of enthusiasm for the topic.
"He's back in school."
"Mm-hm."
"And he's got a job. He's a mechanic at that little auto shop on Valdemere Road."
"Mm-hm."
"Rogue, are you listening?"
"Course not. Ah'm tired."
"You just don't like Lance."
"Kitty, nobody likes Lance. He's Brotherhood. They smell. Except Wanda, and she's just creepy."
"People like Lance. Some people."
"Sure. You."
"Other than me."
"So go find them and tell them about how great he is. I bet they'd rather listen to that than sleep."
"But you like Lance, don't you?"
Rogue opened her eyes to roll them and lifted her head off its comfortable pillow. "What do you care if Ah do? You do. Why d'you care what Ah think? Ah ain't datin' him. An' that's my last word. G'night." She flopped back down and rolled over to face the wall.
"What if, tomorrow—"
"G'night, Kitty."
"But—"
"Time fer you to shut up now."
"But what—"
"You're done."
"What about . . . oh, fine." Kitty shoved her hairbrush into the drawer of her nightstand and lay down. "Good night, Rogue."
"Mm-hm."
Rogue waited until she was sure that she wouldn't provoke another round of chatter from her roommate before squirming into a more comfortable position. Kitty did have to bring up Lance just before bed. Now she'd have nightmares of airplanes and fire, of drugs and confusion. And it wouldn't be the last time. The only way to shut Kitty up about her infatuation would be to tell her what part Lance had played in Rogue's kidnap last spring. But she'd promised she wouldn't do that, so she was stuck.
It was late, and she needed to get to sleep, with nightmares or without them. There would be school in the morning. So she closed her eyes and pressed her face into her pillow, taking deep breaths, remembering that she was safe in her own bed. Last spring was far, far away, and Lance and Pietro were the only remnants of what had happened then. Time to forget about it. Time to move on.
Though there was no daylight, Gambit knew it was still well before dawn when he woke again. The Morlock tunnels were dark and silent. One fire still burned low, keeping the sick warm, but the other had faded to embers. Across the cavernous space were makeshift beds: battered mattresses like the one on which he slept, ancient sofa cushions, piles of pillows and other rags.
Gambit sat up and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat.
"Going already?" Callisto stood up from where she'd been crouched next to the still-burning fire.
"De day's young," said Gambit. "Lots to do. But I t'ank you for de hospitality."
"So now we're even."
Gambit stood up and brushed himself off. "Non. Now we friends. When you an' yours need help, y'find me."
"When you need a place of refuge, you will always find it here."
"I hope so."
Gambit fished in his pocket as he crossed the room to her, searching for the change from the bill he'd broken for yesterday's purchases. "Voilà. An' don'you turn y'nose up at it, not when dey's hungry kids down here." He pressed the bills into her hand and confidently stared her down. "Just remind me a'de way out."
Callisto pointed. "Second left off the tunnel. Two lefts and a right, third from the end on the right-hand side, across the bridge, two more lefts, and up the ladder."
"Merci." Gambit bowed his head with a smile, then turned his back on her and went on his way.
It was still dark, cool, middle-of-the-night early morning when he emerged from the tunnels, but as he headed northward out of town the approaching sun gave definition and shading to the vague shapes his mutated eyes perceived. Everything was quiet except the birds and the sound of his own footsteps in the gravel on the side of the road.
Why was he going back?
He had a promise to keep, certainly. But he'd resolved long ago that when he came to the Institute, it wouldn't be just to hand Rogue her winnings. He was going to try the life he'd watched so intently, to see if he could survive the strange and foreign existence of an X-Man. He knew he was going to try, he just didn't quite know why.
Rogue was something to do with it, certainly. But Gambit knew how stupid it was to base all your decisions on a pretty girl, especially when that girl was off-limits for a number of very compelling reasons. And the prospect of a comfortable bed and regular meals had its attractions, too. But he could get all these things elsewhere, if he wanted. He was more than capable of making a living as a professional thief or as a mercenary. In five years he could probably buy his own mansion. And pretty girls were easy enough to find in this world, if you were good-looking and dangerous and had a Creole accent. So why, really, was he coming back?
A memory flickered across his mind: a white house, sitting in a pool of perpetual gray-green shadow underneath the bowing branches of the ancient trees. It was nothing like the Xavier Institute, all red-brick New England respectability, but somehow the one reminded him of the other. The sense of activity and community was the same. He was barred there, but he had a chance here . . . a chance to call somewhere home again. It certainly wasn't the home he would have chosen, but it was something, and something was better than nothing. He'd been living out of his pockets for too long. He was tired, and lonely, and wanted to see a friendly face after months of wandering solitary and unseen among hostile strangers.
The front gates of the house came into view. Gambit grinned at them as he remembered a little bit of what it felt like to be coming home.
Sans doubte: doubtless.
