Interesting tidbit: The scene outside the bar is loosely based on an actual sign that I saw hanging in a bar in Nashville last summer. It really astounded me how openly biased people are allowed to be.
The title of this chapter is a song by (yet again...see a trend yet?) Ani Difranco. It is an amazingly powerful song that I encourage you all to check out. It sends such a strong message that relates to mutant (well, any) prejudice and condemnation. I've added the lyrics at the end of the chapter.
Thanks for your patience, guys.
Crime for Crime
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He watched in horror as the frail girl swayed in the wind. The rope which suspended her 228 feet above the streets of Paris creaked as it moved. He was too far away from her to hear her screams, but they echoed inside Remy Lebeau's head non the less.
"Make your choice, coonass, or they both die!" The animalistic snarl ripped through the air.
Remy hesitated for a moment more. There was a growl and the two ropes tied around a pair of open-mouthed gargoyles snapped loose. Screams echoed against each other. Heart pushing into his throat, Remy sprung into action, hopping it would not be too late.
Sprinting over the grainy stone of the north tower of Notre Dame, he drew his bow staff from his pocket. With a flip of his wrist, it extended fluidly. Circling it around himself a few times, he ran towards the south tower. A row of monstrous statues gaped at him as she sped passed. He jumped onto the ledge, digging his staff into a jagged crevice between the stone bricks. Leaning into the momentum, he pushed off of the edge, flying into the air.
In the back of his mind, he calculated the distance between the two falling figures. If he timed it just right, he would be able to grab the heavier one first, stabilize his fall and have just enough time to grab the other.
As he leaped into the air, he tucked into a ball then pushed his arms and legs out into a sharp dive, the movement pushing him downward at back-breaking speed. He soon caught up with the first falling body.
Larger and heavier than Remy himself, the man – arms still bound with a long tail of rope trailing above him – knew to lengthen his body horizontally as much as he could to slow his downfall. Spread out onto his stomach, the man watched the world rapidly approaching with seemingly no emotion as he remained relaxed and stable in the air. It was easy for Remy to swoop down to him and grab him around the bulky torso. Immediately, Remy pulled him into an upright position. Grabbing the rope, he quickly twisted it around his staff in a loose knot, then threw it toward the wall of the cathedral. It hit an angry gargoyle in the side of the face, which caused it to rebound and flip, effectively wrapping the rope around the creature's neck.
As the rope tightened, breaking the their fall, Remy swung their bodies toward the cathedral, pushing his legs out in front of them. His feet met glass as they crashed into a stained-glass window. Colour exploded around him as sharp pieces of multi-chrome angels few around them. Tumbling to the floor, Remy wasted no time to somersault into a standing position.
Taking only a fraction of a second, he reached down and touched the rope tied his brother. It sizzled and popped. Scooping up the end , along with a small piece of broken glass, he took three running steps to jump back out of the window. He charged the shard and threw it upward, cutting the rope from his bow staff. He unconsciously noted that it had once been an end to an angel's feathery wing.
He continued to cut through the air, his long hair and leather trench whipping behind him. He was going to make it. He had to make it. Remy would not allow the death of an innocent to fall on his shoulders.
The girl was thrashing around, screaming at the top of her lungs. She was falling fast. Remy twisted the rope around his arm securely, then tied the other end into a loop and lassoed it onto anouther neck of an even uglier gargoyle as he came inches away from the flailing girl. He reached down and grabbed her hips, but the girl reacted violently and ripped away from his grasp. He groped the air beneath him and brushed the hem of her silk dress, but his fingers caught nothing but air. The realization shot through him in a painful shockwave seconds before the denouement.
Remy heard the sickening slap as her body hit the pavement. Almost immediately after, the rope ran out of slack and snapped taught. His body jerked violently and there was a jarring crack as his shoulder dislocated from its socket. Remy was flung back into the air, then snapped down again. Up, down, up down. When the rope finally stilled, Remy hung listlessly, staring down at the streets below him.
There was a howl above him. Dis is f'you, Sabertoot', Remy swore, One day I return de favour.
Rogue jerked upright in her seat. "Sabertooth!'
The car spasmed and squealed as Remy slammed on the breaks. The cars behind them honked angrily, but Remy paid them no mind as he searched the road ahead of them.
Rogue was panting and covered her face with her hands.
"Rogue."
"No...it's...Ah had a ...flashback, is all."
Remy slowly sped the car up again. The cars behind him switched lanes to pass, yelling unheard obscenities at them.
He spoke quietly. "Y'knew Sabertoot'?"
"Unfortunately."
"Yeah..." Remy took a deep breath. "He an' I have some unfinished business."
"Ah know."
Rogue flushed under the sharp look that was directed her way. "Ah..uh..it's part of mah powers. Touchin' someone soaks up little pieces of them. Like memories and personality traits. When they're a mutant, Ah get their powers, too..." she trailed off.
"An' so y'know everythin' 'bout me now?"
"No, just little bits and pieces. They kinda come randomly."
Remy exhaled, looking relieved.
Smirking, she continued, "Ah do know where ya hide ya cards durin' poker games." She laughed when she saw the Cajun's ears redden.
"Merde."
Rogue continued to laugh for a full minute and a half. Remy finally grabbed an empty Tim Horton's coffee cup and chucked it at her.
"Achhk! Hahah...hey..hahhah!" Her sides began to cramp and she bent over, attempting to breath.
"So...Dis is permanent? Do I have t'deal wit dis f'de rest of de trip?"
Rogue hiccoughed, finally calming down. She rested her head on the window, still supporting a wide smile. It weakened as she began to speak. "It fades after 'while...the memories seem ta keep creepin' up on me, though. Gets kinda crowded, actually."
"What y'mean, chere?"
"Well...it's as if a little mini version the person gets stuck in mah mind. Like a psyche. They don't like it much, either," she added sardonically.
"Y'mean...what...dey talk t'ya or somethin'?"
Rogue just nodded, solemn once more.
"Freaky." He noticed her shoulders hunch at that. "In a cool way, d'ough." No reaction. "Least y'never get lonely, non?"
Rogue snorted. "It's like bein' in a room full of bullies," she said under her breath.
"What dat, chere?" though he had heard her perfectly clear.
"Nuthin'."
Back to one word sentences. Not good. "Well, if mini-me in dere starts makin' trouble, y'just tell me an' I put em in his place, hein?"
That got a small smile out of her.
"Hows about we stop in Nashville an' do a bit a tourin'? Ever been t'Nashville?
She shook her head.
"Bon, bon! Not f'long!"
He slammed his foot on the accelerator and the Ferrari sped down the freeway, passing the still-agitated drivers within seconds, causing jealous scowls and more honking.
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The simple melodic trills of a key board filled the metallic room. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. Soon the voice of his favourite singer wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
You know and I know My Clone Sleeps Alone
She's out on her own - forever.
He sighed. What a beautiful voice.
She's programmed to work hard, she's never profane
She won't go insane, not ever
He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling his stomach churn in anticipation as the music rose in intensity.
No V.D., no cancer, OnTV's the answer
No father, no mother, she's just like the other
And you know and I know, My Clone Sleeps Alone
Then the drums began and the song took on a faster, upbeat pace.
Your clone loves my clone, but yours cannot see
That's no way to be, in heaven
No sorrow, no heartache, just clone harmony
So obviously, it's heaven
No naughty clone ladies allowed in the eighties
No bed names, no sex games, just clone names and clone games
And you know and I know My Clone Sleeps Alone
His eyes squinted as they began to water. It was really a beautiful song. So emotive and touching. When the first tear escaped past his thick lashes, he rose into a seated position, placing both hands on the edge of the cot for support as he bent his head down.
Before we existed the cloning began
The cloning of man and woman
When we're gone they'll live on, cloned endlessly
It's mandatory in heaven
He stood and walked over to a small metal cabinet. The room was mostly bare steel, with only a musty cot, a sink, a few filing cabinets and harsh neon lighting. The only decoration was a tattered poster of Pat Benatar rocking away with a microphone. Opening the top drawer, he withdrew something round and shiny. He shook it gently. When he held it up to the light, it revealed itself to be a small snow globe. The little pieces of snow flew around in a dainty blizzard, encircling three identical ballerinas who held their hands high in a circle.
But they won't remember or ever be tender
No loving, no caring, no program for pairing
No V.D., no cancer, OnTV's the answer
No father, no mother, she's just like the other
His breath hitched in his throat. It really was all so beautiful.
No naughty clone ladies allowed in the eighties
And you know and I know My Clone Sleeps Alone!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
My Clone Sleeps Alone!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
My Clone Sleeps Alone!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"WHAT!" He roared, angered that someone had the audacity to interrupt his beloved Pat's song. Replacing the globe and slamming the drawer shut, he spun around and waited for the door to open, his face twisted into a fierce, intimidating scowl, his eyes glowing menacingly.
The door slowly swung open, and a man in uniform stood in the frame. His arms were draped haphazardly on his automatic rifle which hung from his shoulder. He remained still and silent.
The man waited for the solder to speak, but when it was clear that the boy wouldn't start on his own, he growled and barked, "out with it! Or are you so intent on wasting my time?"
The armed young man immediately began to speak, energetically but without any trace of emotion. "Sir, we have recently been alerted to a possible sighting of a level red AWOL, believed to be Subject G369."
He turned his head and looked at the poster, as if silently asking Pat for strength. "And where is he?"
"We do not know, sir."
His head snapped back at the shoulder. "What...do you mean... you do not know? I thought there was a sighting." His voice was low and dangerous.
The young man before him did not even flinch. "Trackers are working now to follow the trail. We should be able to catch up to him in a matter of days, sir."
"Then what are you doing standing around here for! Get to work! I want the bastard found. He has eluded me for too long! I will have him caught! Go!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled fanatically. The solder turned and marched away, showing no reaction to the outburst.
Alone again, the man heaved himself onto the cot, his eyes staring a hole into the ceiling. He whispered under his breath, "Gambit..."
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"So what's with the nickname, anyway? Ah thought only the mutants playin' superhero got a codename. Why Gambit?"
"Y'even know what a gambit is?"
Rogue's face twitched as she kept her gaze on the crowd in front of them. She and Remy were strolling down the heavily populated street in Nashville, aptly named Broadway. There were long strips of small buildings on each side of the road. Every other building harbored a packed bar, and in between them were stores that facilitated musical supplies, CDs, and/or instruments.
"Yeah, of course Ah know what a gambit is." She did another little jig around a particularly raucous group of teenagers, careful to keep a safe distance away from any bare limbs.
Remy raised his eyebrow, looking amused at her continuous, rather comical assertion of distance while in public. He also caught the split-second of indecision. "Oui? What is it, den?"
Her eyes flicked to him for a brief moment before she scowled immaturely. A sort of sound emitted from her that was something between a humph and a snort.
Remy chuckled, watching her frown deepen. "A gambit's a strategy in chess when y'sacrifice a minor piece in order t'gain an advantage over de ot'er player. Actually, mon pere used t'call me dat when I was young. S'my style. I's willin' t'forfeit de little t'ings t'get ahead. Don't make me too popular, but I never lose."
"So why the cards? Why don't ya carry 'round a chess set an' throw pawns at people? At least it'd have some allegorical relevance."
That pulled a loud, sharp bark out the Cajun. "As long as y'carry em all f'me. 'Sides, y'only get thirty two hits. Wit' de cards," a deck appeared in his hands seemingly from nowhere, and he began to shuffle them skillfully to assist his point, "y'get 55."
Rogue nodded in understanding for a few seconds before doing a mental double-take. "Wait, fifty five? Aren't there fifty two cards in a deck?"
A boyish smile spread across Remy's face. "Not if y'include de jokers and instruction card."
Rogue turned to punch him in the shoulder and Remy sprang back melodramatically, covering his face with his arms while hunching down. When the playful blow never came, he looked up through the space between his elbows and found his assaulter frozen in place, one fist up in mid-swing, wide eyes staring past him.
He whipped around, discreetly flicking some cards into his hands.
There was no one behind him.
He looked back at Rogue, who was still staring ahead in a glassy-eyed, mesmerized stupor. He walked up to her carefully and waved a hand in front of her face.
No reaction.
He poked her in the shoulder a few times, seeing if she would tip over like some fleshy statue.
Rogue didn't respond to him, but began walking forward in a trance. She approached the large display window of the music store that they had stopped in front of. She raised her hand and touched the smooth glass.
On the other side was a display of instruments. In the centre was a beautiful left-handed acoustic guitar, painted a stunning jade green with intricate black bordering.
In Rogue's mind, the Hallelujah Chorus was blaring away – if a bit off key, as none of the guys in her head actually knew how to sing.
Remy came up beside her, staring at the guitar. "Well," he said, leaning against the window, watching her face, "s'pose y'like guitars, den."
"It's the most gorgeous thing Ah've evah seen." Her voice was misty and light with awe.
"So's de price tag."
Her eyes shifted to the little piece of paper tied to one of the strings and convulsed into a series of tics. "That's obscene." She slowly began walking again, Remy following at her side. Her eyes still weren't focusing completely, her mind still wrapped around the mocking display.
"Didn't know y'were left handed, chere." The voice cut through Rogue's reverie, and she shook her head.
"Ah ain't. When Ah taught mahself how ta play back in Coldecott, the only guitar available was this cruddy old thing that belonged to mah school. It was a lefty, so Ah didn't have much choice in the matter. Ah'm glad, though. Gave me a challenge." She sighed. "Crap, that's a nice piece a wood! Some hillbilly's probably gonna buy it an' have his two-year-old slobber all over it while it teethes."
"Well, it looked like y'were 'bout t'do just dat."
Rogue was about to punch him again when someone was violently shoved into her. "Hey, watch it!" Her voice held an angry tone, but her face revealed her panic, and she automatically recoiled, but ended up bumping into Remy. She was about to jerk back from him but was stopped when Remy wrapped his arms around her, protectively.
He looked almost as surprised as Rogue. They reluctantly parted, leaving an awkward distance between them.
The man who had crashed into her fell to the ground and an angry group of people swarmed around him. "Ah just wanted a drink, man! No trouble!" His voice was muffled as his arms were covering his head, warding off any pending blows.
It was then that Rogue noticed the grey tint to the man's skin. On closer inspection, the man – a boy really; he couldn't have been much older than herself – had tiny, almost indecipherable scales covering his skin. There was no body hair at all, as far as Rogue could see. She had a feeling things were going to get really ugly, really fast.
"We don't want none of yer kind here, freak! I don't wanna see your gross excuse for a face here again, or else!"
The trembling mutant raised his face, which bared a striking resemblance to the Swamp Thing – to the bar owner towering over him. It looked for a moment that we was going to retort, to defend himself, but in the end, he just turned his face away and nodded submissively. He slowly rose to his feet.
Before the boy even had time to straighten, Remy was stepping passed him to face the owner. "Or else what, mon ami?" His voice was low and carried an unmistakable thread of danger.
The Owner wasn't impressed. "Or else he ain't gonna be needing those gills of his for much longer."
"Dat so?"
"Remy..." Rogue cautioned under her breath. She tried to pull him back, but he wouldn't budge.
"An' where 'xactly it say muties can' sit an' have a beer?" He swatted at Rogue's hand yanking on his coat like a bug. "Scat!"
The fat man in front of him smiled grotesquely. "There." He pointed to a large, crooked sign behind him which was pasted in the window of the bar. In thick, black lettres, it read:
No tanktops on men
No sanduls or bear feet
No faggs
No muties
Remy cocked his head to the side. "At least dey got de muties part right." He looked back to Rogue and Mr. Gillyweed, the latter looking a bit green around the gills – literally– with an expression on his face that clearly indicated he would rather be anywhere but in the middle of this brewing cockfight.
Rogue was about to turn to the fish-boy to attempt some consoling, but she caught a slight movement in the corner of her eye. That little flick of the wrist that was becoming increasingly more familiar to her– and normally meant nothing good was about to follow.
Apparently the mutant beside her caught it too, for a slender, webbed hand reached out and touched the card that was glowing slightly in Remy's hand. The card immediately began rippling, becoming transparent. In a blink of an eye, the card liquefied and splashed between Remy's fingers.
Rogue gaped and Remy started, whipping around, glaring. But fish-boy was no where to be seen. He must have slipped away...somehow Rogue thought as she looked around the crowd. She didn't notice the large puddle of water that was weaving between the feet of the gathered on-lookers, gliding away from the scene.
Rogue and Remy exchanged glances. Remy was moving for another card, but Rogue shook her head. He blew out a puff of air, looking at her for a moment, considering the options. Finally, he nodded and turned back to the owner, who was looking about frantically, looking decidedly more sour having lost his prey.
"Well," Remy spoke with a startling calmness, "dat's dat. Bickering wit' de bigots makes m'thirsty. I wanna drink." He slid through the men blocking the bar entrance and disappeared inside without looking back.
Rogue and the bar owner looked at each other, sharing the same look of confusion on their faces. Rogue shrugged with her hands and followed the Cajun into the bar, leaving the fat man behind to deal with the crowd.
Inside, the cramped room was dark and musty, the air smelling thickly of cigarette smoke– a prerequisite for all bars. Remy was already seated on a stool and smiling at the bartender who regarded the Cajun with open suspicion.
Rogue saddled up beside him and sat down, feeling a bit awkward.
"Two double shots a whiskey, one f'me an' one f'de lady."
Startled, she looked at Remy, then back at the man behind the bar but remained silent. With the last couple of days she's been having, she certainly deserved a little kick.
"IDs?"
Again, Rogue started, looking guiltily between the two men. "Oh, Ah, uh, forgot mah license. Musta...left it at home. Ah'll just have a– "
"Nonsense, cherie. It in y'wallet where it always is."
Rogue looked at Remy blankly. She recognized that...innocent...look on his face. Something was up.
"S'in y'back pocket, non? I 'member it bein' stuffed back dere," he added while pulling out his own wallet – a long, leather business-y one that she hadn't seen before.
Ah'll smack that little smirk right of his face. Ah threw away that ugly, girly thing he gave me –" she stopped mid-thought when she reached into her back pocket...and pulled out a compact little wallet with an intricate 'D' in flowy blue script on the front.
She looked at it stupidly for a few seconds before Remy nudged her. Her lips twitched and she opened it, revealing a drivers license with a picture of a young woman who looked strikingly like herself. The nose was a little wider, the eyes were brown, and, of course, there was a lack of white highlights, but the similarities were impressive. She really didn't want to know how Remy pulled this shit off.
The bartender hardly glanced at it before wordlessly filling up two shot glasses and slamming them in front of the two.
"Well," Remy picked up his glass and motioned for Rogue to do the same. "To an adventure dat'd make Bonnie an' Clyde proud!"
Rogue smirked and clinked her glass to his. Together, they knocked back the fiery fluid, allowing it to burn away all the vexation and grief from the outside world.
Crime for Crime
by Ani Difranco
the big day has come
the bell is sounding
I run my hands through my hair one last time
outside the prison walls
the town is gathering
people are trading crime for crime
everyone needs to see the prisoner
they need to make it even easier
they see me as a symbol, and not a human being
that way they can kill me
say it's not murder, it's a metaphor
we are killing off our own failure
and starting clean
standing in the gallows
everyone turned my way
I hear a voice ask meif I've got any last words to say
and I'm looking out over the field of familiar eyes
somewhere in a woman's arms a baby cries
Isay, guilt and innocence
they are a matter of degree
what might be justice to you
might not be justice to me
I went too far, I'm sorry
I guess now I'm going home
so letyea amongst you cast the first stone
now we've got all these complicated machines
so no one person ever has to have blood on their hands
we've got complex organizations
and if everyone just does their job
no one person has to understand
you might be the wrong colour
you might be too poor
justice isn't something just anyone can afford
you might not pull the trigger
you might be out in the car
and you might get a lethal injection
'cause we take a metaphor that far
the big day has come
the bell is sounding
I run my hands through my hair one last time
outside the prison walls
the town has gathered
people are trading crime for crime