A/N: I would like to take this opportunity to redirect you all to Spikey44's Gambit-centric epic, "The Devil's Own." If you haven't read it, you should. It's a lot better than this, and where I've been for the past couple of weeks. I've already read it a number of times and like to glance at it every now and again when I have writer's block. Unfortunately, my little remedy turned into a distraction rather quickly.

Chapter 5: Axe to Fall

It had taken Remy quite some time to shake Shiro. He appreciated the companionship he provided, and he couldn't deny the fact that he honestly didn't know if he'd still be alive today if it weren't for Sunfire's intervention on his last encounter with the X-Men – not to mention digging a fresh grave on a chilly fall night by his lonesome wasn't high on Remy's "to-do" list - but the boy sure could be clingy, non? The Cajun had spouted out a long list of duties – everything from visiting his poor, old père to needing to get his kicks at a poker table before returning to all that mundane Marauder business – all fairly reasonable yet uninteresting to Shiro – before he could get some time to himself. That was 17 hours and 1404 miles ago. Times like these caused Gambit to curse his immaculate sense of style – a '49 B31 was a très beau bike, but not the world's most comfortable ride. Where was a Blackbird when a homme needed it?

It was 8:47 PM and Remy was only another hour and a half from his destination. Far too early for a pinch, especially in a home as highly guarded as the one he targeted. He had decidedly refused to drink much on this trip – he needed to make time and unnecessary endeavors to the peu chambre des garçons would be less than beneficial. But now he had time to spare, legs to stretch and a bladder to empty. Besides, it was the last rest area before he hit his exit anyway.

Despite his posterior's pains of protest, Remy loved the road on modern day horse back. The excedingly high speeds caused his outgrown hair to whip and the wind to beat upon his face. What's a helmet, homme? The sensation was freeing, but much more than in the stereotypical biker sense. If one of those biker mauviettes wanted a real rush, just piss of sweet Rogue on the second story of the mansion – she'll take you for a ride you'll never forget. No – Remy didn't long to fly, or feel the wind for the sake of freedom – Remy was free because his bike outraced his thoughts, the wind ripped from him his errant doubts. It may have been another reason he had been putting off this pit-stop – stopping for too long let those pesky thoughts catch up, climb back into his ear and snuggle warmly with his brain.

LeBeau was headstrong, never really the doubting type. Non, Gambit would much rather charge forward and spend a lifetime regretting and atoning instead of bothering to doubt. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow, oui? But this was different. Racing at break neck speeds towards the last place on Earth he wanted to be with a sample of DNA stolen from a homeless man's corpse – who was killed by one of his buddies on his new "team" - that happened to be buried in his père's backyard, contrary to popular belief, wasn't on Remy's bucket-list. And of course, this was all just the tip of the iceberg, as the saying goes.

For not the first time in his life – not the first time this week – Remy was forced to question his sanity.

He did crazy things on a regular basis, sure, but he would consider himself far from insane. Sometimes the crazy bets were the only ones with a worthwhile payoff – sometimes a professional gambler can't get his fix from the smart plays anymore. This game he'd been playing lately, though, was beyond a reckless bet – it was a guaranteed loss. You could only lose the chips you pushed into the middle. Didn't matter if you knew you had your opponent – he was just another mark and the game turned into a pinch. Remy was all in, but he knew he was beat.

He was pot committed, though, and had to take a loan out against the house to keep playing. Against Shiro. Against the X-Men. Against Apocalypse. Against Rogue...

She had been the first chip he had recklessly tossed into the middle of the table when his fingers closed around her throat, Death poisoning her lungs, all those months ago. He had played that hand blind – even in retrospect he couldn't be sure whether or not he had been bluffing. Yeah, Death had truly wanted her dead so Remy could be free of his last attachment to this world – but Death was Apocalypse's creation. The Horseman knew only as much about Remy as his master had – which wasn't much if his number one target had been Rogue. Not to say he didn't love the fille – but love had never been Remy's main motivating emotion. But that doesn't negate the question begging to be asked – did Remy want her dead – did he let Death take control of him? Of course there was the easy way out - blame it on the mental conditioning he had gone through to become a Horseman - but Apocalypse was already dead when he attacked Rogue. Was it as simple as brainwashing, or was Death – suddenly without the input of it's Master - merely feeding off of Remy's subconscious desires?

De Rogue 'n Gambit days're ove', but dat don' mean I want de femme dead.

As he shook off his recently washed hands, Remy couldn't suppress the laugh that angrily clawed it's way out of his gut. He was playing this whole putain game blind, but he knew he wouldn't be the only one paying the price if he folded and, merde, he just didn't have it in him to check. Raise, homme, that's the only option – even if the game's fixed. If you gon' go out, homme, take de whole putain sans valuer worl' wit' you.

But then again - the one game Remy LeBeau was better at than cards was playing possum.

"Where is LeBeau?"

Scalphunter looked up from the dismantled automatic shotgun he had been cleaning to regard Sinister. He normally was one of the more well-behaved Marauders, but he couldn't help a derisive snort. "Cajun ain't my brother and I ain't his keeper."

In a flash of motion, John Grey Crow found himself in the air, held up by Sinister's firm grasp on the collar of his shirt, staring at the monster's razor sharp teeth. "He is your charge and therefore you are his keeper."

As Sinister released him, Scalphunter ran a hand along the front of his body, straightening the creases in his clothing Sinister had created. "Not a job I volunteered for," he mumbled as he sat back down, attention seemingly turned to his mundane project.

Such a pitiful specimen Scalphunter was shaping up to be. A lifetime ago, Dr. Nathaniel Essex saw so much potential in the criminal – in those days, before the world at large knew of mutations, any man living through a military sanctioned firing squad was a man to take note of. In truth, the man had been a cornerstone in the change of direction Sinister had taken his operation. There was never a time in his life when Essex wasn't a scientific genius – he'd had experiments, subjects, tests – but Grey Crow had been his first soldier. In all honesty, though Scalphunter had ceased being his most useful asset when LeBeau had returned to him, the man was still his best man in the field. The other Marauders were killers, yes, but it would be a stretch to call them soldiers. Unfortunately, just as Scalphunter had changed Sinister's focus before, once the scientist got his newest pet up and functioning, Grey Crow would be as useless to him as Mueller had become. "Your willful cooperation is not required for the tasks I assign you."

"Of course, boss." Scalphunter considered his words wisely. The time he had spent working for Essex before the man's full decent into lunacy (although saying he was anything resembling normal back then would be a bold faced lie) on occasion garnered Grey Crow enough clout to actually hold something resembling a conversation with Sinister – an event the scientist couldn't even fathom with the rest of the Marauders. "Maybe you should let LeBeau blow off some steam - the thief needs an outlet."

"I am not concerned with LeBeau's needs – his duties to me are what he needs to be satisfying."

"Of course, but the prick does have a penchant for disappearing in the middle of the night. Seems a little too early to run him off for good yet." Grey Crow caught the dangerous glint in his master's eyes. Today was apparently not one of the days he could have a psuedo-reasonable conversation. Quickly, he backpedaled into a safely subservient line of thought. "Not that it'd make a real difference – life just may be a bit easier with him around for now."

With a soft exhale of derision, Sinister turned his attention from Scalphunter to the large plexiglass window that made the fourth wall of the observation room Grey Crow inhabited. Soundless strides carried Essex to the window, gazing down from his third-story view on a loose assembly of Marauders wheeling a large, stainless steel container towards a long corridor. "How is our new guest?"

Scalphunter repressed a shudder at the question. In all actuality, though, he shouldn't be surprised at Sinister referring to a stolen corpse as a guest. The man was slightly off kilter. "The body's stable and being transported to your labs as we speak, Sir."

The laptop taking center stage on the desk blinked silently, a message waiting. Charles was glad the mansion's computer network had been one of the responsibilities still left to him by Scott after his pupil's takeover of the teams. There were many things the Professor was willing to concede – control of the X-teams, leadership of the school, scheduling, training, and the list went on longer than Charles cared for – but some things were his, a fact of which he was glad he hadn't needed to remind Scott. This had been particularly useful with the recent destruction of Cerebra. Charles hadn't realized it at the time – too engrossed in the idea of a mutant baby to notice the change – but Cerebra was completely fried by the amount of energy the mutant birth gave off. To a certain extent, the computer was still functional – the Professor (with help via conference call to the X-Club) managed to salvage the massive hard drives that back-up Cerebra on a regular basis, but the computer was not receiving (and thus not analyzing) any new data. This proved to be quite the monkey wrench in the gears of moving towards locating the child. Charles found himself constantly straining the formidable reach of his telepathy, but to no avail. This task, it would seem, required ground work.

"My dearest Professor, please contact me immediately. There are some discoveries I am in dire need of sharing."

The message was short and simple – so very un-Hank. If it was something interesting to the blue scientist, but he stayed short-winded about whatever message awaited, it must be very important. On the screen, around the edges of Beast's abounding face, Charles could see the hustle and bustle of the world's leading team of scientists working at a fevered pitch. Charles was proud of his two star pupils, Hank and Warren, adept ability to assemble this team in relative speed – amidst the great turmoil of the Decimation that rocked many other minds into a numb sort of demotivation. In the background he could see Dr. Rao huddled over a series of test tubes and next to her Nemesis and Jeffries seemed to be in a rather heated debate.

It was quite a sight , but Charles didn't know whether to be intrigued or concerned. The time stamp checked the message as being sent around 6:15 that evening. Three hours was already far too long to keep Beast waiting. Besides, Charles had no desire to send any X-Men out on a wild goose chase without getting his lead scientist's opinion on the situation.

With a few dept keystrokes, Charles brought up the vid-chat screen and hailed Beast. "Hank, are you there?"

After only a few short moments of white-noise filled silence, the familiar face of blue fur materialized before him. "Professor! So good to hear from you."

"Hank, you mentioned an interesting discovery."

"Oh, yes." Hank's massive hands patted along his pristine white lab coat, searching. In a moment, his hand retrieved his trademark spectacles, placing them in the wide brim of his nose as he continued. "As you know I've been streaming the information on the occurrence you were able to save from Cerebra's minor meltdown to the labs of the X-Club."

Charles could hear the click of Hank's long, dulled claws against the plastic of his keyboard as Beast's eyes darted slightly to the left of the camera – apparently bringing up some document to glance over as he spoke. "When we first hatched this plan to stay on alert, eyes and ears open for a possible mutant birth, I had been focused on the genetic essence of the hypothetical child. I have the inventory of changes made here, for reference. We had our sensors re-calibrated – along with the algorithms for Cerebra's energy signature processing functions - set to alert us if any human born with the X-factor in their DNA should come into being. It seems our calibrations have forced us into only seeing half of the story. There have always been a percentage of the baseline population that has a dormant X-gene."

"Of course, Hank. Cerebra usually only picks up on the brainwaves of mutants after their mutation has manifested to the point where it effects there mental signatures."

"Yes, and Wanda's devestation of our great people didn't lie in the de-powering of mutants, but because she managed to wipe the X-gene clean out of humanity."

"Which is precisely why we had to change Cerebra's protocols in order to detect a mutant infant. Not only for the usual reasons - the child's mutation would most likely not manifest until puberty – but also to focus her power. An uncatalogued X-gene would stand out much easier than an instance of a mutanagenic power signature."

"Precisely!" Blue pads slapped together in a muffled clap of intellectual joy. "Alas, my dear friend, that is exactly the issue, Charles. We set our sights far too low. The X-Men, the harbingers of hope for mutantkind, didn't hope nearly enough."

"Hank, I appreciate your excitement regarding the issue, but what are you talking about?" The Professor's eyes narrowed, searching Hank's face for an emotion that might make more sense then scientific ramblings. "What does your news have to do with reprogramming Cerebra?"

"Well, we assumed part of Cerebra's untimely downfall rested in those tinkerings – perhaps she was overwhelmed by the sudden change in sensitivity levels she was forced to operate under, or we made a slight misstep in our reprogramming." Hank glanced once again to the readouts on his screen, double and triple checking his facts before he dare speak them aloud to the Professor. "Alas, we were astoundingly incorrect in our assumption. I've spent quite a few restless hours deciphering the information Cerebra was able to record before her demise. She shut down not because of changed parameters but because of sheer psionic overload."

Hank stopped there, allowing himself a moment to quell the storm brewing in his mind. His glasses left his face and found their way to his mouth, a tell-tale sign that Charles knew meant to sit up and pay attention – it would be interesting. "Charles, the child's mutation manifested at birth. And if I'm reading this right – the baby is quite possibly – from birth – Omega level."

The night air was quiet around the Mansion. It was a rare occurrence that Sentinel Squad O*N*E would relish in. Just as his eyes began to droop, though, a bright red alert light began to flash and illuminate the small cabin, calling Jacob Slayton to attention. No alarms were ringing, which he was thankful for, but he couldn't put off running a quick diagnostics. Since their tour of duty on the outside lawns of the X-Men's home, barely a day of peace has gone by for their happy band of Sentinels. Jake couldn't miss getting the jump on a threat.

"O*N*E Command, this is Recon Sentinel, do you copy?"

"Copy. What's your status?"

"I'm picking up a lot of strange interference around the mansion. Requesting orders."

"Is the interference outbound."

Jake glanced again at his diagnostics read-out. "Negative, General Reyes. Inbound. Advise."

"Set me up a stream and we'll monitor the activity remotely. Cooper can deal with it in the morning."

"Copy." With a few strokes, Jake quickly set up the feed to HQ and set his head comfortably – or as comfortably as possible in the cramped cockpit - back against his headrest. He was more than happy to let the big wigs handle this one.