Illegal Seizure
Chapter 4: Old friends, New enemies
Disclaimer: If I owned Gambit, do you think I'd be sitting here!
Summary: Remy makes a visit, Jenning talks with a general, and Remy gets in a ...bad spot
Author's Notes: SORRY! I know I took a long time, but summer's here, and I've been stuck in cherry trees and raspberry bushes for a week. You're all going to have to be patient, because I'm going on vacation for a bit, but I promise to stick with this.
Again, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. (That's Latin for 'my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. I'll probably be using it again.)
Reviews- Hawaiichick, lovestoread, enchantedlight, Rikou Kyohaku, Gryphen Void, (right now my spell check is going CRAZY), surrealgreen, lelann37, Chibified Youkai 101, and Rusty. Thank you!
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The ride passed uneventfully, the trucker was gruff but good natured, and Remy drifted fitfully in and out of sleep, jerking awake at the slightest noise. Getting out at a way station the next morning, he thanked the trucker and headed into the city. Before he could go further, he had a few stops to make.
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"I can't believe you allowed him to escape!" Major General Hutch bellowed for the seventh time in half an hour. Jennings sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She knew from past experience that he would blow off his steam, and only then begin to be helpful. Another 45 minutes and broken chair later, he gave a final glower, and sunk into the couch facing her. "I read your report, and you listed the files that had been comprised. That includes.."
"Information for Xenon, yes. While we know they were compromised, we don't know if the culprit is aware, or plans to act on, the data." She leaned back in her chair, swirling her glass of water. "I believe that the best course of action is to find the mutant and impound him again."
"Why not just find him and kill him?" Asked Hutch irritably. "Dead men tell no tales, as they say."
"Because it won't solve the problem," Jennings explained, as if talking to a smallchild . "We can't kill him unless we know he didn't pass any of the information on, or doesn't have any copies. There can be no loose ends." She swirled her glass of water around, watching the spiraling motion. " We cannot begin until our problem is... solved."
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Remy got a taxi to the east district, and walked to a rather scruffy three-story building. At the door, he entered a nine-digit code on the hidden key pad, and was met by a big, dirty, dangerous looking man. He squinted through his black hair. "That you, Rems?"
"Oui, it be m', Jase. Remy's come t' see ol' George. Now let m' in."
The inside of the building was at odds with the exterior. It was darker, but clean and well furnished. This was the place where the less law-abiding citizens came to get necessary papers, Remy went up the stairs. The second floor was totally dark, save for one room, from which the light streamed from a slightly open door into the hallway. Approaching it, Remy opened the door and scanned the room and it's occupant.
Inside there was mounds of papers, several computers, a handful of expensive cameras, and a few different printers. Buried underneath all that was a desk, some chairs, and files. In the middle off it all was a small old man, whose dark grey and silver streaked hair was sticking out crazily at all angles. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose as he worked intently at one of the computers his thin mustache twitching. Remy cleared his throat, and the man whirled around, his hand going for an unseen weapon. Seeing his visitor leaning against the door frame, he broke into a large grin.
"Remy LaBeau! My God, it's been, what, over a year!"
"Remy sees y' still jumpy. Y' look good, mon ami."
George settled back in his chair, traces of good humor still in his eyes. "Well, what brings you to old Philly? And why are you stopping here?"
Remy found an unburied chair and sat down. " Ran int' a bit o' trouble, dat's all. I need t' get some of y'r best."
George's eyes took on a new glow. "Ah, I see. What do you need?" His demeanor was now eager.
"De usual. Driver's license, I.D.'s, credit cards..."
"Say no more. It's time to create!"
George took pride in his job; considered forgery an art, and himself a master artist. Which he truly was- no one had yet traced any of his work. Remy had first met him when his father had taken him and Henri on a world-wide"business" tour, to familiarize them with global resources.
In the next 45 minutes, George had two driver's licences, four I.D.s, and two credit cards, connected to a couple of Remy's accounts. "And a complimentary wallet!" George added happily, giving Remy a nice leather one.
"Merci, mon ami. What Remy owe y'?"
George waved dismissively. "Five hundred fifty, but take your time. I'm in no rush. And besides," he added, " I can count on your credit."
"Again, merci. Did m' pere leave m' box 'ere?"
"Yes, he did. It's downstairs." Remy followed the old man, who led him into a slightly dusty room, which was lined with boxes of various sizes. "'Murray'... 'Muxito'...ah, here we are, 'LaBeau'." He pulled a medium sized box out and handed it to Remy. He opened it, and stared at the contents.
Inside, there was various pictures, a few decks of playing cards, some documents, and what he was looking for: his bo staff. Quickly he put it in his duster's pocket, and grabbed a picture of his family and slipped it in his wallet. Then, with a nod, to George, he slipped out into the night.
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As the sun went down, Remy was walking along a railroad line, on the fringes of the industrial area. In his experience, it was usually the best place to find a place to stay. There were plenty of abandoned warehouses to choose from.
Suddenly, he stopped and grimaced in pain. Quickly opening his duffel bag, which was over his shoulder, he pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen. He clumsily tried to open it, but another wave of pain rolled over him.
Blam!
He stared stupefied at his empty hand, immensely frustrated.. Merde! Just had t' go an' blow up m' meds! Now, it was a question on where to get some more. He'd have to go back into the city. But he was so tired, and felt like burning needles were being driven into every muscle. Remy's breathing was becoming heavy. No chance of traveling like this.
Then Remy heard the last thing he wanted to hear; that sound he'd heard many times before: footsteps of a person, no, persons, attempting to be stealthy. Normally, he wouldn't have been bothered- a leap, or hiding in the shadows and he'd have been out of harm's way. But the current situation didn't allow for that. All Remy could do was pull his bo staff and get his back against the wall before they came at him.
They were what you expect of a gang of low criminals: muscle shirts, black leather, studded jewelry, and long (illegal) switchblades. "Now, youse gonna give us no trouble. Youse drop da bag." Remy wanted to roll his eyes. Like hell he'd give them no trouble. And end up dead anyways? No t'ank y'. He'd seen too many dead bodies that had "given no trouble."
"Sorry, hommes, but m' only set o' underwear's in dere." He raised his bo into a defensive stance as they circled him. Five of them. Merde. His eyes widened as he felt their intent. That wasn't only greed. They didn't just want his bag- Merde.
One came at Remy, from the side, and he parried it, twisting his body to keep the bo between him and the rest. He used a slight opening to smash down on a shoulder, rendering one of them incapacitated, howling and cradling a (hopefully) broken shoulder and collarbone. That left four more to deal with.
They were more cautious now, and more angry. They hovered just outside of his reach, waiting for an opening. Remy, usually so nimble, slipped on a slide of muck. As one, they went for him, like hounds to a deer. Twisting his body away rapidly, he dodged three of the knives. Unable to dodge the other, he turned into it, protecting his chest.
The blade bit deeply into his right shoulder. Grimacing, he stumbled back, trying to get some space between. But they pressed toward him, more confidant. He passed his bo from right to left, and whirled it about, hoping desperately to push them back. Sensing their prey's fatigue, they stood their ground, and closed in.
Remy's vision was swimming. His whole body was screaming in pain, and he was almost dead on his feet. He had no doubt that each passing moment the odds were more and more in their favor. He had to take them out, and fast. Taking a chance, he dove down, fingers scrabbling for gravel. He wished he'd grabbed the cards from his box. If he could get them with a good charge...
Immediately they were on him and threw him to the ground, his bo staff immobilized under him. One wound his fingers into Remy's hair and pulled, another wrenched his wounded arm down. He yelled in pain, but kept his hand closed over the precious gravel. His legs were immobilized, and the other pinned his chest. Panic was setting in now. The gravel in his hand was glowing. The one one his chest was bringing out his knife. Deu...
With an almighty heave Remy wrenched his whole body, shaking off the thugs on his legs and arms. Simultaneously kicking the one off his chest and pulling his bo staff from under himself, he nailed the head of the one holding his hair. Making a clumsy roll away, he sent the charged gravel flying, the pink halo of each illuminating the area for a moment. Then they hit their targets.
The sounds of the explosions and screams of the thugs faded as Remy ran, heading for the darkest, safest spot he saw: an old warehouse, whose doors were gone. Meaning no one was inside that was trying to hide anything important. As he entered, the adrenaline rush was gone, and all the agony his body was feeling was muted by exhaustion. Along the wall, in the shadow, he collapsed, past the point of caring. He was out cold before he hit the floor.
xxx
Notice the Philly accent? Stroke of genius ;) Sorry for no X-Men, their on their way, first thing, I promise!
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