Author note: I'd like to wish all my dear readers and reviews a very happy, restful Easter, and send out particular thanks to Randirogue for beta-ing this and Book 3 of the House of Cards trilogy, which, as always, has proved invaluable to me.

-Ludi xxx

: TWIST OF FATE :

PART FOUR: NEW YORK

(21) - Brotherhood-

Kate Pryde sat at the communal dining table with her husband, Piotr Rasputin, the mutant formerly known as Colossus. This was not the Kate Pryde Rachel had grown up knowing. That Kate had then been called Kitty, a young woman only a few years older than Rachel herself, and perhaps the closest friend she'd ever had.

Now she seemed much older than her 25 years. Not long after arriving at the South Bronx Mutant Internment Centre – a labour camp really, for those mutants deemed fit enough – she had married her childhood sweetheart, Piotr, and soon after given birth to twins. The infants had tested positive for the X-gene, and had been forcibly taken away from the couple. They had never been seen again. Now Kate wore a line on her face for each year she had been separated from her babies. She was a realistic woman. She knew in her heart that they were dead, as dead as her father and her mother. What she had in the camp – this hard, weary life – was the only thing she had left.

"You're telling me," she began as patiently as she could, whilst Rachel sat across from her with an harassed expression on her face, "that Logan is still alive?"

"Yes," Rachel replied breathlessly, and Franklin nodded.

"If what this Tanya girl said, then yes, it's true," he chipped in; and Rachel was grateful to him because there was seriously a part of her that was beginning to believe that she had dreamed it all.

"But you said she was Bolivar Trask's daughter," Kate put in testily. "How can we trust her?"

"Why shouldn't we?" Rachel protested eagerly. "She's a mutant just like us! The fact that she projected herself astrally proves that! Her dad threw her out and now she's with Logan's group in Chicago! We have a link to the outside, Kate! We have a chance!"

Kate looked over at Piotr doubtfully. Storm was frowning at the wall. Magnus, wheelchair-bound and frail-looking, stared at the ground.

"It could be a trap," he spoke hesitantly, his once rich, sonorous voice thin and tremulous – the voice of the old man that he was. "A trap to get us to move into all-out rebellion, giving our enemies a pretext to exterminate us."

"If that was the case," Rachel reasoned slowly, "and they really wanted to exterminate us, they would've done it already. It's not like they'd need a pretext. No one cares whether we live or die."

Storm nodded slowly. "True," she spoke in those same proud tones she had always possessed. "But there is still little evidence that what this Tanya says is the truth."

"But it is the truth!" Rachel insisted, losing her patience now. Piotr looked across at her sympathetically.

"How do you know that, Rachel?" he asked.

"Because," Rachel replied on a deep breath, "she told me Rogue was there with them. And Logan was exactly who Rogue and Gambit was looking for before I split up from them."

"It proves nothing," Kate echoed Storm's words, and Rachel glowered.

"So I'll prove it to you," she said. There was a challenge in her voice, something that made the others gathered round the table exchange uneasy glances. She knew exactly what they were thinking. That even if it was the truth and Logan was still alive – along with another small group of X-Men – their chances of fomenting a successful rebellion was virtually nil, not with their limited numbers and resources. To do so would be a suicide mission, with outside help or not.

"Rae," Kate began softly, sadly, "I know you don't want to hear this, but you have to put away these ideas of starting a rebellion. Magnus tried the same thing – look where it's landed him." She cast a fleeting glance at the broken man in the wheelchair before continuing; "He's lucky to be alive, Rae. How could any of us bear it if the same happened to you?"

And that was it, as far as they were concerned. It was worse than a slap in the face.

"So that's what I came here for?" Rachel queried in a taut voice. "For this? I came here to find X-Men, dammit! I came here to find what I'd – what we'd all – lost! But this isn't the X-Men – not anymore! You're dead already – all of you!"

And she scraped her chair back, stood and stormed out.

She stood out on the roof, fuming.

It was a risk being here in broad daylight, and she knew it. Everyone was indoors for their standard meagre lunch, and the Sentinels had set up a patrol around the perimeter of the camp. But the way she was feeling, she didn't care. She knew half of it came down to guilt, that she should have had a better plan coming in here. It wasn't the first time that she'd wished she'd stayed with Rogue and Gambit, at least until finding Logan in Chicago. Then she would've at least stood a better chance of pulling this off. Even if she didn't really know what she was hoping to achieve, other than saving her friends.

She knew they were right. She knew that even their combined powers – should they be able to access them again – wouldn't even give them a fraction of the luck they needed to take down a legion of Sentinels, let alone an entire anti-mutant government. A woman she may have been, but she knew, deep down, that she was still a child in so many ways.

"A little bit harsh, don't you think?"

She turned slightly to see Franklin a little way behind her. His face was serious, his mouth set slightly downward at each corner. At least he hadn't told her it was dangerous to be up here at this time of the day, and she was grateful to him for that.

"It's true," she retorted in a tone that was softer than she'd first intended. "If none of us are willing to fight, we all might as well be dead."

And she turned away from him, holding herself against the powerful trembling that had suddenly taken her. He was silent a moment, and she heard his footsteps in the gravel as he came up to her, stopping only a short distance from her.

"It isn't about having the willpower, Rachel," he spoke soberly. "It's about having a life to live after the fight."

She pressed her lips together hard. She knew he was right. The truth was, she had never really cared about her own life; but it was unfair of her to put that viewpoint on the others. Kate had Piotr – why should either of them sacrifice the only good thing in their lives for a glimpse of freedom, one that might only entail their deaths, and the deaths of countless others?

"I'm being selfish, aren't I," she murmured gloomily, more to herself than to him.

"So am I," he said unexpectedly. "Life here isn't worth much, Rae. But it's been better since you came along. That's something I'm not sure I want to risk."

Her laugh was small, but it held real pleasure.

"We hardly know each other," she said with a smile she couldn't quite conceal; but his expression was still completely serious.

"Do we need to?"

She bit her lip, looked at the ground, then up at him.

"I guess not."

There was that silence between them again – not of awkwardness, but of comfort. Again, she marvelled that she could feel such contentment in someone's presence. It wasn't a wild, passionate feeling. It was a feeling of sublime satisfaction.

"I have an idea," she said at last, her voice quiet.

"And there's the redhead in you speaking again," he replied with a thread of humour.

"Don't tease, Franklin. I'm being serious."

"I know. That's what worries me."

She pouted at him, and he smiled like he couldn't help it.

"I'm not talking about rebellion," she told him slowly. "You're right about that. We're not in a position to start one up, not effectively. But my idea's better than that. It's crazy, but it's better. All I need is to get my powers back."

His countenance was one of incredulity.

"And how are we gonna do that?"

Her lips twisted.

"I have an idea about that too," she answered. "But it means getting some help from this Tanya."

And, as if on cue, the atmosphere between them began to shimmer, quiver, and finally coalesce into the form of the girl they had met only the night before.

"I seem to be getting the hang of this," she commented to herself rather than the two mutants who stood before her. "God, I hate this training."

"Training?" Rachel spoke. Whilst she noticed that Franklin seemed ill at ease with the impromptu appearances of this girl, she, however, felt no surprise at all. Tanya nodded at her question.

"Yes. I'm kind of a novice. I'm getting some help from Emma and Betts. I have telepathy and telekinesis, you see. They're helping me to get the hang of this astral projection stuff. It's not that difficult," she added unnecessarily. Rachel frowned at her.

"Why do you keep appearing here?" she queried suspiciously; the golden form of Tanya shrugged.

"You're brighter than all the others."

Rachel was silent a moment. She didn't exactly know what that meant, but she felt sure that if she had her own powers she might be able to figure it out.

"You said there were others with you in Chicago," Rachel spoke, deciding to change tack. "Who?"

Tanya hesitated, her eyes flickering briefly; Rachel understood somehow that she was conferring with someone else nearby.

"Emma, Betts, Jubes, Ev, Rogue," she replied at last. Rachel nodded.

"And Logan?"

"Him too. But I told you that yesterday."

It was then that Franklin chose to speak.

"How do we know we can trust you? You're Bolivar Trask's daughter."

Tanya looked at him as if realising he was there for the first time.

"Another Omega," she noted, again to herself. Rachel glanced at her sharply.

"How do you know that?"

This time Tanya frowned, as if she had been asked why the sky is blue.

"I can just sense it. You're both Omega level mutants."

Rachel stared. Again, she seemed to share another power in common with Tanya. It was this ability – the psionic ability to read the power signature of other mutants – that had made her so valuable to Ahab.

"And in answer to your question," Tanya added, addressing Franklin, "I guess you don't know if you can trust me. Although I suppose I could bring in Emma and Betsy to vouch for me. But then I guess you'll ask me how you can trust them too."

She spoke with a tone that suggested it was of little consequence to her. Franklin instinctively bristled at the girl's words, but Rachel bit back on her irritation and continued to question her.

"You mentioned Rogue was with you," she began, and Tanya nodded.

"Yes."

"That's good. I'm going to need her help. And the help of all of you, when it comes to it." She paused, seeing Franklin shoot her a look, half warning, half quizzical. She ignored it. "Rogue had this little device on her, one that masked the X-gene. She said that Forge made it. I need him to make something else for me. I need him to make something that'll break these power disruptors for me." And she fingered the collar about her neck. By now, Franklin was looking at her with alarm; Tanya, however, had an expression of narrow-eyed interest on her face.

"You're thinking of breaking out?" she spoke, after another moment of silence during which Rachel guessed she was once again conferring with the others. Rachel shook her head in reply.

"No. It's too risky. I'm thinking of something different." She paused, took in a breath, deliberately avoiding a glance at Franklin as she did so. "I'm thinking of going back and rewriting history," she said at last, with a hint of defiance that dared them to challenge her.

The shock on both Tanya and Franklin's faces was now palpable. Rachel had expected it, steeled herself against it.

"Rae…" Franklin said in a strangled voice; she hushed him.

"Rewrite history?" Tanya echoed disbelievingly. "How?"

"It's simple," Rachel answered seriously. "I can navigate the Timestream. If I go back in time, I can make sure that whatever started all this never gets to happen."

-oOo-

Brotherhood headquarters, New York.

It'd been months since he was last here.

Remy had parked the bike a few blocks down, and now, here he was, squatting in the shadows waiting for the right moment.

There was never any formula to figuring out a 'right moment'.

Usually, it was something he calculated on instinct. It had nearly always served him well in the past. He didn't doubt it would be the same tonight.

It was an hour since the last light had gone out. He felt certain that everyone must be sleeping now, but it was always better to be extra cautious, especially with Mystique. If he could avoid her, he would. No point in causing a ruckus. It wasn't what he had come for. What he wanted was a nice, quiet, cordial chat.

He stood and ran a hand against the wall. Smooth. Not much purchase. A little way down a drainage pipe ran from rooftop to ground. He figured that would be his best bet. High above him, on the second floor, was the window to Irene Adler's bedroom.

It had been stupid of him really. Remiss. Irene Adler's presence on the Black Womb project had always puzzled him. He had had ideas… trains of thought he hadn't really liked exploring. Now that he knew what he knew, it made sense. He wasn't sure why Rogue was important to Irene. But that wasn't the point. The fact that she was important at all was enough.

He swung up onto the pipe easily, began to climb.

He'd never believed in those Diaries, not really. Even when he'd looked in them and seen the fact that they never got things wrong, he had always believed there was another way. A way to outsmart destiny. Whatever the truth, whatever his own prejudices, he didn't have a lot left to play with. What he did have were the Diaries. They were the very last weapon he had in his arsenal.

Makes some sick kinda sense, LeBeau, he thought wryly to himself as he eased his body up past the first floor window. Was de Diaries dat sent you on dis crazy caper in de first place; figures dat de answer's gotta be here…

He scaled the wall, looked in at the window. In the darkness he could make out Irene, slumbering peacefully in the bed. As straight and as neat in sleep as she was in the light.

It took the very minimum of effort to get through the locked window. The slightest wisp of a charge here, the smallest nudge there. In a matter of minutes he had gained access to the bedroom. He stood just inside the window, illuminated by the moon, wondering what his next move should be. He was just about to step forward, when it came out of the blue and to his left. Mystique's fist, whizzing through the air, faster than thought.

He dodged just a split second too late. Her fist connected with his cheekbone, with less force than originally intended, but with just enough to send him crashing into the nearby nightstand before hitting the wall. She followed him, arm driving forward for another punch, but this time he was ready, grasping onto a mirror hanging behind him on the wall and levering himself off the ground, striking out with both legs and straight into her abdomen. She reeled backwards onto the floor just as the mirror gave under his weight and went crashing to the floor.

But he was already halfway across the room again, advancing on Mystique who was laid out spluttering on the floor, ready to knock her out cold if he had to – she wasn't a part of this equation, he could afford to take her out. But she was faster than he had anticipated. All it took was a sweeping movement of her foot, and a moment later he was on the floor with her, the both of them grappling with one another violently, trading blows with any available part of their bodies.

And then a light flickered on, casting their struggle into cold relief, and a voice said:

"Stop."

And he did, because this was all just a distraction and he didn't have time for it.

Mystique, however, had other ideas. As soon as his grip slackened – crack – she'd headbutted him, and when he stopped seeing stars a few moments later, she was on top of him, her hands digging vice-like into his throat.

"Stop!" Irene's voice came again; but Mystique wasn't having any of it.

"He. Stole. My. Daughter!" she raged, flecking his face with her spittle.

"And I allowed him to take her," Irene's voice intoned with a queer, cold command. "Now let him go, I say!"

And just as he was about to lose a hold on consciousness, just as he was about to sink under, she did it. She released her grip and he wasn't sure how, but suddenly he was on his hands and knees, coughing and retching at the floorboards with his head whirling as merrily as a spinning top.

"Are you fucking mad, Irene?!" Raven was saying somewhere in the background; he wasn't sure how long they had been talking, or if they had been at all. "Letting this thieving shit here live?!"

"I am quite sane, Raven," Irene's reply came, clear and calm. "More sane, in fact, than I have ever been. You will not hurt him." She paused, and Remy was surprised that there was no comeback from the other woman, no blazing accusation, no cutting reprimand. He laughed and coughed in turns, looked sideways to finally see Irene sitting, stern-faced, on the bed.

"So," he croaked ironically, "you been expectin' me, neh?"

"You shut the fuck up!" Raven blared at him, but Irene looked askance at her and said without a trace of emotion: "Get him some water."

There was a pause, during which he sensed Mystique wrestling with an inner impulse to make him suffer just that little bit more. But there was only one who could win this battle, and he knew who it was. A moment later and Raven had left, her footsteps stomping angrily along the landing and down the stairs. Only then did he deem it safe to get to his feet.

Irene waited as he shrugged out the kinks in his limbs, the pain his shoulders. The smarting in his head, his cheek, his throat – they'd have to wait for later.

"She sure packs a punch, for a senior," he muttered comically, touching his jaw with his right hand gingerly, making sure nothing was busted. Irene, however, was completely unmoved.

"This is hardly the time for jokes, LeBeau," she spoke icily. "Not if you have come here to talk about what I think you have."

"So you really have been expectin' me," he retorted wryly.

"I suppose I have," she answered dispassionately. "In a way. You weren't intending to come here. Your decision to do so was a spontaneous one. The probability of your arrival came upon me quite suddenly. From leftfield." And she waved the space behind her head vaguely with her left hand. "For a moment, I was surprised. Then, not so much."

He said nothing, not quite understanding, but understanding enough. It was at that point that Mystique re-entered the room, held out a glass of water to him with a begrudging hand. He took it, chugged down the flavourless liquid in one go, clearing out his throat as he did so. He handed the glass back to her wordlessly.

"Where is my daughter?" she asked him in a tone that clearly indicated that she would rather not waste breath on him. It was a stalemate that lay between them, with Irene his only protection – as far as that went.

"She's safe," he assured her quietly. "Wit' Logan. Don't worry. If dere's one person dat'll take care of her, it's him."

Raven's mouth opened, then shut. He sensed that she could not deny this fact; and that besides this, she would rather have Rogue with Wolverine than with him any time of the day. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. To realise that Mystique would rather root for Logan than for him.

"Sit," Irene commanded, breaking his train of thought. Just as with Raven before, Remy could not help but respond to the calm control of her voice. There was no chair nearby; he sat on the windowsill instead.

"There are questions you wish to ask," she spoke when he was as comfortable as he could get on his perch. "Ask them."

"If you know what I'm goin' t' ask," he replied, unable to keep the chagrin from the words, "why don't you just tell me de answers first and lemme save my breath?"

Mystique looked like she was about to pounce again, but Irene smiled, still cold and controlled.

"I don't know what you're going to ask," she returned simply. "There are some words, sacred words, that never change throughout the long, dark passage of time. But other words – most words – they form as and when we make them, quick and fast as thought, and just as flimsy and throw-away. You have nothing to say to me that is of the former. Therefore, tell me what it is you seek, and I will try to answer."

He began to understand now. The riddles that Rogue had told him Irene always spoke in. Infuriatingly intangible, conjuring rich and powerful images that were nevertheless made of smoke and mirrors, fading away and falling apart before much more than their flavour could be caught. And that was all he understood. The flavour of her words, not the meaning. There was no cue here for him, nothing he could wheedle from her. He glanced at Mystique to see if there was anything she could impart to him. She stood, arms crossed, glaring at him, stony-faced. Nothing.

"I went to Alamogordo," he was forced to admit; and Mystique's face stirred.

"Ah," was all Irene said.

"To de Black Womb test facility in de desert," he continued slowly. Raven looked at Irene; Irene inclined her face towards Raven. Silent communication. He knew then, that he had been right in his decision to come here.

Irene turned to face him again.

"You spoke to Amanda Mueller," she said. It was not a question. It was a statement. He nodded.

"Oui."

"So you know the truth."

"Oui."

Irene nodded quietly. Not to him; to herself. Her mouth went straight and hard. He sat and waited.

"Then," she began after a long, almost endless, moment, "you have come to me, because…"

"Because I've reached an impasse," he confessed without hesitation. "And I need to know de truth, Irene. You put yourself on de Black Womb project because you wanted to guide Rogue's life. I'm not askin' you t' tell me what you're guiding her to or for. I just need t' know one t'ing. I need to know how to keep her safe."

From the sidelines, Raven sucked in an audible breath.

"I see," Irene returned softly.

Raven let out the breath, said angrily: "And you believe this lying fuck, Irene, the one who debauched and corrupted our daughter?"

"Why, Raven? Don't you?" Irene replied mildly.

"Pfft," Mystique scoffed loudly. "This scum thief knows only one thing – to take what is good and pure and turn it into something black and perverse. And you let him take Rogue so that he could continue to toy with her, use her for his own pleasure until he is bored with her and finds something new to twist and destroy."

He almost got on his feet then, almost crossed the room and smashed his fist into the side of her face. Almost.

"Dis all rich comin' from you Raven," he threw at her instead with thinly disguised disgust. "'Specially when it was you dat pimped her out to fuckin' strangers. And you t'ink I corrupted her?"

"I didn't do anything she didn't choose to do herself!" Raven rounded on him fiercely. "She was the one who decided to do what she had to do to destroy Art Rogers' work! The only reason you've never heard of him is because of the sacrifice she chose to make! But you know what the sad truth is, LeBeau? If you hadn't slept with her first, whoring herself to Rogers was a choice she never would've made. She would've walked away every time rather than sell herself!"

It stung; worse than the punches, the head butt, the throttling. But he refused to buy it. Not for a second.

"You might be right, Mystique," he answered her coolly. "But I didn't do a t'ing dat Rogue didn't want herself. I wanted her and she wanted me. We both wanted each other. So yeah. I did somet'ing fuckin' stupid and I slept wit' her. Even though I knew she was a virgin, even though I knew I probably wouldn't never see her again. And you wanna know de best bit? It was fuckin' good. So good I went back for more. And more. And more. So if dat's what you call corruptin' your precious daughter, den oui, I lift my hands up. I'm guilty as fuckin' charged and I enjoyed every fuckin' minute of it."

He was skating the line and he knew it. Either Raven would punch him through that window right now, or she would do what he was banking on her doing. There was a split second of indecision where it could've gone either way. In the end, what he was hoping for won out. Raven gave an explosive noise of rage and hatred, turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The light and the fixtures on the wall shuddered and rattled in her wake.

"A little over the top, don't you think?" Irene remarked when the dust had settled. He shrugged.

"I wanted her out. And besides," he added defiantly, "I ain't got a t'ing to be ashamed of. Mystique's right. Rogue wouldn't have done what she ended up doin' if I hadn't slept wit' her first. But I wasn't lyin' when I said she wanted it. And if I did corrupt her, den fine. I ain't gonna apologise for one of de best moments in my life."

It'd all come out in a heated rush; and when he was done he didn't expect to see the small smile that was tugging on Irene's lips.

"What?" he asked, irritated, but her smile only grew wider.

"Forgive me," she apologised softly. "But it is always a great comfort to an old lady such as myself to discover that the choices she has made in life have been vindicated."

She reached for the mahogany cane at her bedside and stood, not giving him a moment to ponder on her words.

"Whatever Raven may think, I believe you," she told him lightly, pacing the room with no suggestion of a limp. She stopped and considered him a moment. "You are aware, are you not," she inquired, "that Rogue was a part of Black Womb project as well as yourself?"

"Yes," he answered. "Is dat why you manoeuvred yourself onto de project in de first place? To get close to Rogue?"

Irene's laugh was soft, barely audible. She did not look at him.

"What I sought at the Alamogordo facility was nothing more or less than the future of mutantkind," she explained quietly. "It was a chance to map out the current status of our species, and thus gain a window into our future."

"A future you could already see."

"No. Only in part." Her tone was grave. "You must grasp by now, LeBeau, that anything and everything is possible. What I see is not necessarily what is meant to be."

He frowned, back-tracked, re-evaluated.

"So…" he began slowly, "on de Black Womb project you stood a better chance of manipulating the future of mutants in de way you wanted…"

"Perhaps." She seemed disinterested, as if this was a point she had pondered and worn out many a time before. "I am no geneticist, Gambit. I joined the project as its archivist. I therefore had access to data on each and every mutant associated with the Black Womb. What I found was… interesting. Informative. It was the most singular and stimulating moment in the evolution of humankind. And I was there to document it all."

She halted, seemingly lost on the trail of a memory long gone. Remy sat and shivered slightly in the cool night air. Whatever he saw in the woman before him now, it bore shades of what he saw in Essex, in Amanda Mueller. Whatever it was, he was a product of it.

"Why does Essex want Rogue?" he asked, wanting, subconsciously perhaps, to change the subject. The words seemed to break Irene from a spell. She looked back at him with a now sober expression on her face.

"Because of what she is," she returned simply.

"He made her too?"

And he hardly dared to breathe with the anticipation of her answer…

"No," Irene replied, and he released that breath. "She was not born at the Black Womb facility as you were. She was one of a select few infants that tested positive for the X-gene at birth. Essex had all such infants brought to his facility for further testing. Their parents were told that they had shown signs of extraordinary potential intellect. Little did they know." She paused, the smile on her face sad. "It soon became clear to me that Rogue was of particular interest to Essex. She, like you, possesses Omega Level potential – the potential for limitless power once harnessed correctly. Essex had plans for her. I did not like these plans. And so at the first opportunity, I took her from him."

"You stole her. For your own purposes," he interrupted her accusingly.

"She was not Essex's to meddle with," she replied evenly.

"She ain't yours to meddle wit' either."

Irene said nothing for a long moment. At last she turned away, sighed.

"How little you understand."

"I understand more den you t'ink," he objected. "I understand you wanted to take her away from Essex, to give her a better life. But it wasn't your call to make dat judgement. Why do you get to decide what's best for her? What gives you dat right? Just 'cos you can see into de future doesn't mean you can play God and try to manipulate others into what you t'ink is right. So what if Essex had plans for Rogue? He had plans for me, and look where I ended up – wit' de Guilds, wit' a family of my own, wit' friends I woulda kept if t'ings hadn't gone to shit. But hey, dat's life. We take what we can get and roll wit' de punches. Most of us don't get someone to pull our strings for us."

He finished, breathless; but he wasn't surprised to see that his words had left her unconvinced. She shook her head with the same certainty she had always possessed.

"And yet," she began, "everything I have done for her was merely to keep her safe. We are not working at cross purposes, Gambit. Ultimately, what we want is the same thing."

She faced him again, waiting. He looked down at his hands, feeling suddenly tired. This incredible weight pressed upon him, hammering him into the ground. Rogue was the only reason he'd been able to carry on, the only thing holding back the horrible truth in the corner of his mind, of who and what he really was. And he felt it now. Tired. Helpless. Tainted down to the very fabric of his being, his DNA. She was the only reason he could keep that truth at bay. The only reason he could believe he was still in with a chance of being the person he wanted to be, as opposed to the person he was.

All this and more passed through his mind, and Irene remained silent, as if reading every word his mind said.

"Sinister knows she's still alive," he spoke quietly, gravely, to his hands. "He wants her back."

"I thought he might," Irene spoke on another sigh, and again he wondered just how much she had seen.

"But she'll never be what he wants her to be," he continued, spelling out in words exactly what he had been thinking, fearing, for months now but had been too afraid to say aloud. "She'd rather die than be his subject, his experiment. And when he finds that out… when he realises she's useless to him… he'll kill her. Won't he. You've seen it."

Irene said nothing. Her hands were taut, white, on the cane in her hand. It was confirmation enough to him. He looked away, swallowing hard.

"Funny t'ing was, I was gonna kill him. I was gonna take him out." He laughed weakly. "I had dis… dis crazy plan dat I would kill him and dat she'd be safe. Dat it was de only way to break dis cycle. To stop him from finding her, to stop him from hurtin' her. But t'ings ain't as simple as dey seem, neh? I let him talk me out of it. Entice me wit' de truth. Wit' de question of who I am. De truth, in exchange for her. De real me, for her life."

Something of his inner turmoil seemed to communicate itself to Irene. Slowly she moved back across the room, sank back down onto the bed and leaned towards him.

"Did Amanda Mueller tell you of the Omega Level potential you hold?" she asked him with a strain of urgency in her voice. He looked up at her sharply.

"A little. Why?"

"A little." She seemed to muse on the word. "You were not Essex's crowning achievement for nothing, Gambit. In his madness, he made something of true genius, of true worth. Yet – and this was no mere twist of fate – because you were lost to him, because you were raised by the Guilds in a world where your mutation was little understood, you were not able to fulfil that potential for greatness in the way he had intended. When your powers manifested, you were not able to control them. And so you have been a disappointment to him. Until now." She paused as he stared at her wide-eyed, a small smile touching her lips as she finally asked him: "Tell me about your powers, Gambit. What do they do?"

"Kinetically charge de particles in inanimate objects…" he murmured, feeling his heartbeat begin to race, his breath to heave against the wall of his chest and she nodded, said:

"To make things explode. But that was not always the way, was it?"

No. It wasn't. Not always. It was impossible to deny it. To deny the swell of memories he had been holding down, holding onto so tightly for all these years lest he give even an inkling of them away… And she had known them, seen them all, had known each and every one of his secrets – perhaps long before they'd even happened.

"Non," he admitted in a low voice, on a caught breath. "I used to be able to do more… charge organic matter, without even touching it… It used to be a joke… Settin' fire t' people's hair, burnin' their butts… Even came in useful sometimes… I could heat water, cook food, heal wounds, cauterise flesh… All wit' just a thought. But it was de thoughts I couldn't control. I'd end up burnin' t'ings I wasn't meant to, and I couldn't turn it off. If dere was a fly buzzin' round me and it was annoyin' me, I'd want it gone and it'd burn up alive. Scared de fuck outta me." He took in a deep breath, tried to steady himself, looked away. "I was so scared of my powers I didn't know how to use dem anymore. I tried to hold it in, and it just kept buildin' up, up and up until I felt like I was gonna burst..."

He opened his hands, baring scars she could not see.

"Sometimes… I figured it was better to burn myself den risk burnin' de people I loved. But in de end it turned out dat wasn't de problem." He closed his palms, balled his hands into fists. "It was de people I hated dat was de problem."

"You used your powers to kill," she interjected softly and he nodded.

"De brother of de woman I loved. Julien. I killed him. Burned him alive. And a part of me wanted it. De other part…" He trailed off and shuddered. These were his secrets, the seeds of guilt sown long ago, the foundation of many more to come. At last he had spoken them aloud. But of all people, he had just never expected to be divulging them to her. "After dat, I was exiled from de Guilds. I moved to New York, but I still couldn't control my powers. Figured I'd die out on de streets." He sucked in a trembling breath. "Den he came."

"Sinister," she half-whispered.

"Oui," he allowed himself another breath, opening himself now to the memory. "He promised me he'd take de pain away, de agony of dis curse I'd locked inside myself, dat I was too afraid to unleash. I could've set fire to de whole city, if I'd wanted to. Maybe he knew dat. Hell – I'm sure he knew dat. I begged him to take it away from me. I promised him I'd do anyt'ing. And I did."

He looked up, still unwilling to voice those other hidden things that were the source of his shame. She did not press him.

"And in return he took it away. The part of your brain that gave you access to your Omega Level powers."

He nodded.

"He saved my life. Dat's de long and short of it. I traded my power, my potential, for my life. I t'ink I made de right choice."

"Perhaps," she answered obliquely. "But if you were to regain those powers now… If you were able to control them… what do you think you could do with them?"

He glanced at her quizzically.

"I already told you. Set fire to an entire city, blow up half of Washington D.C. wit' a single thought."

"Could you?" she asked him curiously.

"Oui."

"And beyond that? What do you think you could do?"

He frowned, squinting, not seeing where this was leading to. He genuinely didn't know.

"The truth, Gambit," she told him matter-of-factly when he made no reply, "is that you have always seen your power as a destructive force. When really, the bare bones of your power, the thing it was really meant to do, is anything but. Think about these things you manipulate, Gambit. These things you charge."

"Particles?" he spoke, nonplussed.

"Particles," she echoed meaningfully. "Yes, very good. But it is far more fundamental than that. At the smallest level, a particle is made of strings. Threads. The most elementary ingredient of our universe – the fabric, so to speak, of the cosmos. Every single thing in this world, in this universe, is made of them. Whether organic or inanimate. Even the invisible – the air we breathe, the light that shapes the world about us – they too, are made of strings. Even Time itself."

She paused, stared at him intently with her blind eyes. His mouth fell open. Nothing came out.

"Particles and their constituent strings can be in more than one place at once," she continued airily. "It is only when we observe them that they fall into place. In reality, the probability that any one particle is in any one place at any one time is uncertain. Observe that particle and the probability that it is exactly where you observe it is one hundred percent. That is the nature of Time. All possibilities exist, and the one we see now is the one that we make happen. At that moment a possibility becomes 'fixed'. It has become the now, the present."

"What are you sayin'?" he whispered hoarsely. "Dat I can 'unfix' it?"

She smiled at him.

"The threads of Time are made of the same stuff that everything else is. You manipulate them. Make them move. Bring them to life. Reawaken them. Reanimate them. You have the power to do the same to Time. To tap into the kinetic flow of the Timestream itself. To remake yourself within it."

And now he saw – clearly – why the rest of her Diary had been left blank. Why the page that showed Sinister killing Rogue had no conclusion. Because that conclusion was up to him.

He opened his hands again, looked down into them. The scars. A daily reminder of the all-consuming fire that his power entailed. A mark of the thing he feared most. Himself. A flame that could burn him inside out and consume him all to ash. An inferno that could kill him yet.

"I can control Time," he murmured, still hardly daring to believe it.

"Yes," she replied, simply, honestly.

"I can rewind Rogue's death… change de circumstances… erase a mistake… make it right…"

"Yes."

Yes.

So simple.

And it was a risk. A gamble. It was the gamble he saw in those scars even as he looked down upon them. He wasn't even sure if he had that level of control – he'd never even bothered to try to control his latent powers when he'd had the chance. He'd let them control him. Irene was right. He had been a disappointment. To Sinister, and more importantly, to himself.

But if he took that risk and he won… Rogue would be safe, whatever the future held in store for her. He thought about it. Her palm, sliding warm and tentative into his. Raising these broken hands to her lips, holding them to her cheek. Never asking where the scars had come from. Never asking about the pain.

Maybe Essex was right. Maybe love was a madness, maybe it was made to fade. Maybe he wasn't even in love with her at all. But this memory, of the trust she placed implicitly in him, of her touch, of her kiss… it meant something. Her love meant something. It was worth cherishing, worth honouring. And he couldn't betray it. He couldn't betray the good man she saw in him, even if he was bad and wicked to the very bone and always would be.

He closed his hands, he looked up at the blind woman beside him. He knew what he had to do.

"And if it doesn't work?" he asked himself as much as he asked her.

"It will work," she replied with finality, and that had to be good enough for him.

The word of Fate, the word of a blind woman he had never trusted and probably never truly would.

But he had nothing.

No other good reason to do anything good but her. And if she wasn't there, that last good thing, that last flickering flame in his long, dark life… it would be gone. Snuffed out forever.

And he wouldn't – couldn't – allow it.

-oOo-