Author's Note: Yeah. So I suspect you all clicked thinking 'Finally! What's going on in New Orleans!'
Er. I'm Evil? Sorry?
When I was a kid, my mother had only one real rule that breaking could result in punishment – Don't Get Caught. All other rules could be bent, twisted, or outright smashed so long as I obeyed that one concept. I've always thought Remy lived by something similar, hm?
Later Note: Something is wrong with the whole update alert thingy. I think Lizzieturbo had issues with this recently too. I am officially confused. So. . . yeah. Reposting this chapter until I get an update in my own inbox, cause this is just weird.
Technically, anyone who wants to use the Danger Room for personal training just has to ask for it, and the next available time slot will be reserved. There's even a sign up sheet posted in the kitchen. Every morning, a schedule is emailed to both students and staff who have Danger Room privileges. Usually, the schedule includes several blocks of time reserved for last minute practices, open on a first come first serve basis.
As a long time resident of the mansion, Bobby knows all of this. He's taken advantage of it numerous times – to better hone a skill, take out his frustrations, even to show off for a girl. Technically, knowing how the system works means that there's no reason whatsoever for Bobby to be plotting to sneak downstairs hours after everyone's gone to bed in order to use the Danger Room.
Except. . .
Except it doesn't feel right – the simulation he wants to run, on his own, without a sanctified Adult – should be run on the sly, not in a proper, scheduled time with a time limit and all. In a way, if he can break in at a time he isn't supposed to be there, he'll feel as though he deserves to run the sim. Or so he tells himself.
Wardrobe is another point he has to consider. According to the rules, the uniform leathers are required for all Danger Room simulations. All part of the training regime and X-men team mentality, he thinks. Cyclops explained it to him, once, a long time ago, when he was still new and complaining about how the leather chafed.
What Bobby plans on trying tonight, though, isn't a team exercise. He's not sure if Headmistress Munroe would approve, maybe, but then, maybe not. Professor Summers would really go off the deep end if he found out about it, always a stickler for rules and standard operating procedures and lectures about why safety protocols are in place. He's even gotten worse since his return.
Finally, with a defeated shake of his head, Bobby makes a decision. He's already breaking rules, might as well go for broke. A dark, longsleeved tshirt, dark jeans, and worn sneakers are selected and put on. Dark, not black.
Memory of a lesson as he dresses, complete with proper accent – Black says 'look a' me, m'tryin' t'sneak.' Loo' casual, look like ya belon' an' no-one'll 'member ya was dere.
Ready now, he waits for a familiar, heavy step out in the hallway. Superior senses, yes, agility, strength and a history in sneak ops, yes. But also? Adamantium coated bones.
Bobby doesn't doubt that the man could be all silent stalking death if he wanted to, but around the mansion, even during hall checks, Logan's passage is marked by his heavy footsteps. No one voices out loud that this might be on purpose. As one of the residents who takes advantage of the unofficial version of after dark room visitation rule set, Bobby isn't willing to question it too closely.
When he finally leaves his room, he doesn't encounter anyone. Getting to the restricted basement and Danger Room doors is almost too easy. Still, Bobby doesn't wait in the hallway waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, he hurries, getting inside and letting the doors shut noisily behind him before he allows himself to relax.
Well, maybe not relax. The lights are off – something he's never seen in the empty, metal room. It's kind of creepy, how dark it is. His breath echoes strangely, and he wonders, briefly, if the AI'll even respond with everything powered down like this.
He clears his throat, shuffles his feet and raises his voice to utter the command. Maybe he'll feel like a fool standing alone in the dark when nothing happens, but maybe. . .
"Computer, run simulation: Gambit: Stealth, subdirectory : mansion. Difficulty level two. Access code: Marie."
There's a hum, a click, and the lights still don't come on. Bobby's shoulders drop. At least there's no one here to witness the fail. He turns towards where he thinks the door is, takes a couple steps in that direction when the computer's voice sounds.
"Voice Recognition Complete. Subject: Iceman. Rerouting, Please Wait."
The lights still don't flicker, but Bobby can feel the difference in the room. No longer empty, metal walls, there's a texture. A something that tells him the space is smaller. Confused and on edge, he extends an arm, feeling rough wood, like a crate, maybe, in front of him.
"Figured one a' ya migh' try somethin' like dis."
Bobby knows the voice – just like he knows the glowing pinpricks of red are eyes coming towards him. His first thought is that he's caught. But that's not possible, it can't be Gambit, because Gambit's in a jeep heading south with Rogue.
A now familiar sound of playing cards against each other before one starts to light a brilliant magenta. Bobby blinks in the dim light, suddenly bright in the too dark of the room.
"Dina have a lot 'o time fer the programin. So ain't gonna respond iffin you gotta question. Th' program you tried t'open, ain't gonna run wit'out dis one. After 'bout level three, it gets to be a bit. . . lethal."
The glowing card is making sizzling noises, and Bobby's certain Gambit – hologram or not – is holding it the way he is just so that the glow will highlight how very creepily he smiles when he says that last word.
"De wolverine-sim in particular's a bit blood thirsty." The hologram removes the charge from the card, and Bobby's left blinking in total darkness again, except for the glowing eyes mere feet away. "We gonna star' wit'th basics. You in a maze, an if y'fin th' center, th' light'll come on."
Bobby turns, aware of where the crate-wall is, wondering which direction to take from here, and certain his hologram instructor isn't going to give him a hint.
"Couple ot'er things before y'start." Laminated cardstock against each other again. "If dis is scheduled 'Room time, y'won' get t'th center. Least, lights won' come on. If'n y'wearin' de uniform, the sim'll end once y'get there. If no' – well, dis one'll be waitin wit' more instructions, d'accord?"
The glowing eyes are gone, and Bobby's sure the hologram's gone to wherever the center of this thing is. Grinning – those last instructions a loud justification for the choices he's made leading up to this point – Bobby touches the crate wall again, ready to begin this kind new kind of lesson.