It took a long while for the guards to trust Remy to carry out the simplest of deeds after his last visit with Raven. Remy could sense their tension every time he was dragged off to the mess hall to eat. Other than that, he had to stay in his cell and wasn't allowed anywhere else. No gym, no socialization … nothing. While being a dangerous character in normal prisons might have a positive effect, it made Remy's life even more miserable. Constant beat-down such as this was new territory to the Cajun, and he was already having trouble with keeping his spirits high. He hadn't experienced the worst of it yet.
Guards walked up to his door, catching his attention. Snapping his eyes up from the wall, he adjusted them from staring off into space to studying the guards' body language. They were tense, but he didn't see any open hostility. In comparison to the past couple weeks, that was new.
"Don't try to struggle," he was commanded. Remy raised an eyebrow, but didn't verbally respond; his expression said it all. The man got in close, shackles in hand, but that wasn't unexpected. A few of his comrades stood at the door, there to assure that Remy wouldn't try anything funny, yet he came up to the unpredictable prisoner alone. The cool metal around his wrists, his hands behind his back, the soldier motioned for Remy to stand by tugging gently on his arm. Remy complied, believing that they were taking him to the mess hall, having a complete loss of time after being in the prison for so long.
Remy took one step before he felt a cool needle puncture through his skin and into his muscle. Startled more than anything, Remy thrashed away from the acute stab, stumbling to the wall of the room. "Da fuck!" he cried. "Di'n't know it was time fer my meds."
The guard capped the syringe he used, sticking it back in the pocket he had fished it out of. "Settle down, inmate," he nearly grinned. "Faster you work yourself up, the fast it works."
"Say what?" Remy snapped, though much more weakly than before.
"Sit," the guard suggested humorously.
"I ain't no … dog." Without willing to, Remy dropped to his knees, having felt the effect of the drug coursing through his system. Within a couple more heartbeats, he fell completely to the floor, out of it enough to allow the guards to drag him through the hallways.
Remy drifted in and out of consciousness, though even when his eyes were open his brain wasn't recording any of the information. He might have babbled nonsense to the men transporting him roughly through the prison, but he wouldn't be able to recall it.
The first thing he remembered at all was that he woke up, while still groggy, in a big, plain room. The walls were as insignificant as anywhere else in the whole building. It was as cold in this room as his cell and just as uncomfortable. The only difference was that he could move around into a more passable position while locked behind bars; here, Remy couldn't even wiggle his wrists. His brain unable to make the connections, he dropped his head from the chair's headrest onto his chest. "Oh," he grunted upon seeing the leather straps, holding him in place.
He couldn't comprehend anything, even if he saw it. His little eureka moment with the straps didn't make much sense to him, despite his verbal exclamation, but they were there. If something was there, therefore it was. That drab, flat surface standing erect in front of him, that was a wall. Right beside Remy, he could see another chair in his peripheral. Someone was sitting in that chair, but the Cajun couldn't make out any details. He was still working on his motor functions.
A little frustrated, but unsure as to why, Remy decided that if he stood up, it would help. He had enough of sitting on his bottom for the time being. To start off, he tried picking up his hand from the chair's arm. It wouldn't move. His brows pulling together out of genuine confusion, Remy stole another glance at his arm. That same strap was preventing him from moving. It hadn't changed positions at all. It was a very persistent strap of leather.
He was tied down, but it didn't occur to him—at least not at first—that he wouldn't be able to move. Never mind the fact that his muscles still weren't responding correctly.
"Where'm-ah?" Remy asked aloud. If he couldn't move, he could try talking. The choice was obvious, after all. And lo and behold! His voice actually worked, and it sounded perfectly find. He might not understand the purpose of the chair beneath him, but words were perfectly natural. He continued rambling on in his head, believing that the words were filling the room, but was completely lost.
And then, something completely out of the ordinary occurred. A sound answered his initial question. Remy had long since forgotten about his demand. "I … I dunno," the voice responded.
Remy's eyes opened wide as a gasp escaped from his mouth. He never expected for a sound to originate from anything. He could barely grasp the concept of sight, let alone a new sensory function. While one part of Remy's brain tried to get a handle on that, another part sifted through the spoken words, trying to connect it with the sluggish dictionary. It was a very hard task. The only thing that made sense at all was "I."
The chore proved fruitless. He eventually gave up on the daunting job and switched back to studying the room. While he couldn't file the information away for later use, he could still marvel at its aesthetic beauty. The walls were textured, but that was too much to take in. Remy's mind switched gears again. The walls were gray. See, now gray was something he could work with.
Leaning against the bindings across his chest, Remy's eyes fell on an opening in the wall. It was a door, but alas, that was too much to ask for from his drugged mind. Over there, the color was much different from the color straight in front of him. Yet, he knew on some level that it was the exact same color: gray.
Remy shook his head, having come upon another horrific brain chore. He leaned back against the back of the chair, thinking about nothing at all. When his eyes caught on the door again, he thought once more about it. Something significant would happen in that hole in the wall. Something interesting would happen. It had to. Every instinct in Remy's body screamed that that hole served a special purpose.
"Can someone hear me?"
It was that voice again. Remy had forgotten all about it until it decided to fill the room. It was enough to give Remy a headache. But … through the imagined throbbing, Remy could understand the words. He understood!
"Oui," he retaliated proudly. The response had probably taken him minutes, but it was the beginnings of a conversation. He was as proud of himself as a mother was of her firstborn child speaking his first word.
Remy's head swiveled to study the man that had decided to talk to him. They were having a conversation, after all. He needed to identify who it was. He knew that he knew this man, but he didn't know who it was. Everything was completely illogical.
Closing his eyes, opening them again, Remy hoped that it would give him better vision or insight. No such luck. He tried again. Nothing. He repeated the movement rapidly, but it was only intensifying the headache. Where had the headache originated?
"Gambit," Remy continued. The break in his speech made absolute and complete sense, though it must have spanned over a couple more minutes. First he answered the question, and then he offered his name so that the stranger could comprehend what was going on. It was a very friendly gesture.
The other man nodded. Remy didn't know what a nod meant, exactly, but he understood that it was positive. Positive was a good thing. It must mean a compliment, then, because compliments were good. Remy tossed him a friendly smile before swinging his head in the direction of the mysterious door.
That door was even more weird when it swung completely opening, causing the wall to be discontinuous. There was a big hole now. And through that hole walked another man. The man was walking—free. This other man and Remy were prisoners to a chair. The chair would not let him stand up.
"My name … name is … Scott. Scott Summers," the strapped man explained. He was speaking too fast! Remy tried over and over again to make it all straight, make it so that it was in a line, but he made it curvy and wrong. His name was Scott Summers, but that was unorthodox in Remy's world. Remy was Gambit. Simply Gambit. Nothing else. Gambit.
More silence filled the room. Remy preferred this over his throbbing brain. He smiled happily to himself, though he forgot why as soon as his muscles carried out the action.
"…Gambit?" More talking. Remy became slightly irritated at the other man's persistence. "…what's your name?" So much emphasis now, it must mean anger. Remy cringed, but then couldn't remember why. Gambit was his name, after all, and this man had just said it. And maybe, if he was to call Gambit Gambit, then Remy should call him Scott. That was why he said it twice, correct? And it was in answer to Remy's Gambit.
Things were starting to fall into place. This game of Tetris was on level easy, but Remy couldn't place the bricks in time. "My name? Gambit. Gambit," he repeated. It continued in a mean sort of chant through his head, but stopped short when he realized he was also called something else. Gambit was what he was called, but maybe the other name wasn't his real name. He'd give that one instead. "Remy," he crowed before he could even think about it. "Remy LeBeau." Now that one just rolled off the tongue, much better than Gambit ever did. Gambit was harsh whilst Remy LeBeau was … adjectives were beyond him. Things just were.
Scott's eyes were fixated on the intruder. He was wearing a blazing white coat, so different from the gray walls. He didn't appear to be paying much attention to Scott and Remy, but Scott's face suggested that he was worried. Remy could read that emotion right on Scott's face. Something had to trigger his worry, yet Remy couldn't connect the dots. The dots were little butterflies floating through the air. Why? Because they could be.
"Well, Remy," Scott began. Remy's mind jumped off of a butterfly's back, his eyes focused on Scott's face. He was strapped in a chair, too. Should Remy be worried as well? "Nice to meet you. Just wish it wasn't here."
Now why would he say such a funny thing like that? They'd met before, Remy was sure of it.
The white-coated man had a needle-like object sticking in a jar of liquid. The physics of it fascinated the Cajun. The liquid was actually moving, too. Remy was torn between deciding whether it was a good idea to ask this man his name or to ignore him or act worried like Scott. He decided against the first choice, because he thought that this place he was in was bad, though he didn't see any reason behind it. He just picked up on that idea, almost as if the idea was from nowhere. If this place was a bad place where some bad things happened, perhaps this man was a bad person, too. Scott couldn't be bad; Remy knew him.
That decision over with, Remy's mind skipped back to what Scott had said. It wasn't too hard to recall the words now. "Oui," he said, blinking. "Same to you, mon ami." He grinned broadly, almost alarmingly. It was the right thing to do. He had come up with a coherent sentence, after all. He needed to praise himself.
Scott didn't have time to think over an answer. His minutes were up, because that white-coated man decided to speak in Scott's stead. Remy was right in thinking he was a bad person. Only a bad person would interrupt such an intimate conversation like Scott's and Remy's.
"Don't worry, you two. This'll only sting like hell." The man's eyes darted between Scott and Remy, an evil glint to them. Remy didn't even know what evil was, but he knew what hell was. Hell was the place he was going when he died because he was a thief. It wasn't a religion or belief, it was fact.
Remy sat calmly while he tended to Scott, sifting his words through his head. He'd focused too much on hell. Now he needed to recall the rest. Only when he turned around to treat Remy did he grasp the full meaning of his words. For the first time since waking up, fear gripped him. That, somehow, managed to clear his mind like wind clears away fog. It was a good defense mechanism, if he didn't say so himself.
"Well, Gambit got a t'ing 'gainst pain," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Can I skip it dis time?" His grin widened, as if his disgruntled charm alone would save him from the same fate as Cyclops. He knew that he had known that man. Except—he wasn't quite the same man, because he actually smiled at Remy. It must have been the only smile Remy had ever seen on his face.
"Sorry," the experimenter apologized. Not a wisp of sincerity coincided with his word.
"Sorry?" Remy repeated skeptically. "If you truly sorry, wouldn't ya make like a pal an' release us instead o' playin' doctor?"
The man must not have actually tended to Scott, as Remy first thought, because he turned around to see him again, the syringe actually in hand this time. Remy could see Scott thrashing against his bindings behind the scientist's body, causing a chill to wind down his back. Scott then let out one grunted and was stilled.
"Not this time … Remy," the man then continued, turning to the Cajun.
"You got no right callin' me dat!" Remy snarled, struggling against his own straps. He had completely forgotten that he had given his full name to Scott in their daze. He'd been trying to keep his real name more or less hidden from the facilitators.
The man took one step forward, and Remy calmed instantly. Jumping to another topic, he tried worming his way out of the situation. Some had called him a silver-tongued devil during his life. "Dis time? Dat mean der gonna be a next time? I get t' pass on dat one?" He tried to put humor on his voice, but with one look at the drugged Scott, he utterly failed in that category. All that showed through was his fear—actual fear, too—of whatever was in that syringe.
"We'll see," the scientist then replied, closing the distance between the needle tip and Remy's skin. Remy's bare skin. Throughout the whole ordeal, he hadn't even noticed that he was shirtless.
He felt a piercing pain as the needle entered his neck. It was a much stronger reaction in that more sensitive area than, say, the shoulder area. As the man release the serum into Remy's bloodstream, Remy could feel the sickly cold spread through his body. Every new area it reached, it brought more pain. Though Remy felt as if he were on fire, he didn't cry out. He probably couldn't have screamed in pain even if he would allow himself to.
And then the pain dissipated.
Everything was fine. The cold was welcoming, inviting. It made everything much easier. Everything was simple. Everything was fine. Everything was very fine, thank-you. Come again another day, and he might feel like talking. Right now, Remy would much rather enjoy the realm of his mind.
He slid in and out of consciousness, the scientist all the while jotting notes on to a clipboard. This experiment was older, but these subjects were newer to the whole idea of experimentation. Over time, they might learn. Perhaps the scientist would never give them the chance.
